


Worth Killing For, Worth Dying For

by inhalethedark



Series: Worth Living For [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Mob, Anal Sex, Anal everything ever, Angst, Breathplay, Daddy Kink, Feminine Harry, Feminization, Fluff, Gunplay, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Infidelity, Italian Mafia, Lots of Italian words you might want to google, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mpreg, Organized Crime, Prison, Recreational Drug Use, Too Much Kinky Shit, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-21
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2018-07-16 09:40:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 241,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7262770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inhalethedark/pseuds/inhalethedark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis was born into the Mafia and someday will take over as Boss. Harry is a college freshman who thinks his biggest worries are keeping up with his classes and avoiding his meddling neighbor. Featuring Zayn and Liam who are never on the right page, while Niall only sits back and watches the drama unfold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit

**Author's Note:**

> Hello. It's me. I'm back. 
> 
> THIS ISN'T MY PLOT. THESE AREN'T MY CHARACTERS. I HAVE WRITTEN PERMISSION. So please don't report me again because that broke my little heart. That honestly was a very shitty experience. Waking up and finding out that your 200k word fic was taken down with hardly an explanation by ao3 or without being able to explain yourself, or even be able to pull out your damn receipts, is not fun in the slightest. I low key wanted to just give up and move on and forget about this story, but I know I can't do that, and to be honest, I really don't want to. I want to finish this fic (even though I struggle and go mad) for me and for the very amazing people who love this story and have been nothing but incredibly supportive and nice to me. (Also because wild shit happens and I'm so ready to have bewildered people in my comments and dms.)
> 
> Ao3 was _SooOOOOooO_ helpful and just told me to change stuff, so I'll be tweaking a few things here and there. My disclaimers will be the same as they were from the beginning: NOT MINE. So please, don't report me or file a complaint. It's petty. If you have any questions about this or the OG fic which wkfwdf is an adaption from, please just ask. Honestly. It's so much work getting these chapters back up (chapters which I've reworked from scratch, no copy and paste here, friends) so I'd rather not go through that again. 
> 
> In conclusion, I'll be reposting wkfwdf here. You're all amazing. I'm on Twitter and (sometimes) on tumblr, too, and I talk a lot of shit, but I'm nice. So. Come say hi or drop a question or tell me about your day. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Not One Direction, not the plot or the characters, and certainly not the Italian Mafia.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_“All men make mistakes, but a good man yields when he knows his course is wrong, and repairs the evil. The only crime is pride.”  ― Sophocles_

 

The thing about Catholic hymns is that no matter how hard you try to tune out the deep, throaty chants, especially on a Sunday morning, you can’t. It’s almost impossible—well, no, Louis Tomlinson doesn’t believe in impossible.  _Difficult._  It’s difficult to block them out, especially after singing some of the same Latin songs every Sunday for twenty-four fucking years. The Tomlinson's have never missed a single mass. 

“ _Regina, mater misericordiae: cita, dulecedo, et spes nostra salve. Ad te clamamus, exsules, filii Hevae.”_

Holy Name Cathedral is one the most stunning Gothic Revival cathedrals in the country. It’s a castle of white, sparkling marble, real-gold accents, and encrusted jewels. It's a sight, with stained glass windows, high arches, and towering steeples. Rebuilt after the famous Chicago Fire that ruined most of the grand city, the cathedral sits amidst the quickly sprouting modern buildings, like a misplaced antique monstrosity. He's had time to stare at the same, fancy walls for too many years to get his breath taken away. 

“ _Ade te suspiramus, gementes et flentes in hac lacrimaruim valle. Eia ergo, advocate nostra, illos tuos misericordes oculos ad nos converte._ ”

He mumbles along, eyes gazing throughout the large space, until Johannah Tomlinson nudges her son in the arm and shoots him a look. That’s something that Louis will never be able to understand on some level; how his mom can be soft towards her children, with an easy smile and tender hands, when those same hands have been tight around the necks of her enemies. Just a quick grimace from her can take the life of the most dangerous men. With her appearance of a wealthy business woman and doting mother, you would never guess that grown men bow down to her, that she has wealthy businessmen around the world looking up to her, that she orders hits on those who have deemed her wrong. Johannah Tomlinson runs Chicago in five inch Manolo's and Chanel pencil skirts. She’s the head of all Italian organized crime in the city—half of the world, if they’re being humble—and you wouldn’t be able to tell by how Daisy Tomlinson, at fourteen years old, is cuddled close next to her, but everyone else in the dirty business trembles before looking her in the eye. 

It doesn’t matter where you’re from, or what you do, the last name Tomlinson is well known around the world.  _Tomlinson_  is synonymous with worlds like  _ruthless_ ,  _dirty_ , and _merciless_ ; even if on the outside Louis and his siblings are dressed to the nines in suits and dresses—the perfect, blue-blooded, Italian-American family. 

It’s not something everyone would understand, that’s why the Tomlinson’s are at the top of the game. It goes back to the early nineteen hundreds, when great grandfather Francisco De Rossi stepped off the boat at Ellis Island, alone at ten years of age. No one actually knows how he got on that boat from Italy in the first place or how he snuck in without any documentation, but he landed in New York City in tiptop shape. Louis has always had a feeling that great grandfather De Rossi was a criminal all his life, even while playing soccer in the streets of Sicily as a child.

The second De Rossi stepped off the boat; it turned into a blood bath.

Great grandfather didn’t have anything—no money, no family, no shelter, he couldn’t even speak a lick of English, but he was bright. He lived on the streets for a year, until one day he was caught stealing a tuna fish at the market down by the docks. The owner of the large fish stand was a worker of Louis Tomlinson, Sr: one of the most hard-nosed street bosses in Brooklyn. De Rossi’s hand was threatened to be chopped off, as per usual with mob rules, but De Rossi was smart.

So they made a deal, the Brooklyn boss and the eleven-year-old Italian immigrant, and that’s how it started. The original Louis Tomlinson needed someone to help run the streets for him, someone that didn’t matter and couldn’t be traced back to him had De Rossi gone missing or been left to swim with the fishes, and the moment Francisco De Rossi turned eighteen, he was renamed Francisco Tomlinson and had taken over for Louis Tomlinson.

It was a suspicious house fire that had ended the original Louis Tomlinson’s life, but great grandfather De Rossi confessed he had planned it all himself to start his own reign, his own powerhouse. And it was, indeed, the start of the new Tomlinson reign, the beginning of the lucrative business. When he was able to run half of New York, Francisco packed up his things and moved to Chicago, Illinois, got married and had a shit ton of kids.

How Johannah Tomlinson became the leader of the most feared family crime organization is a much longer story, one that Louis never likes to think about; it tends to give him a headache. He’s already in a sour mood to begin with. Religion tends to do that to him. 

“ _Et Iesum, benedictum fructum ventris tui, nobis, post hoc exsilium ostende. O celemens: O pia: O dulcis, Virgo Maria._ ”

“Louis Tomlinson,” Johannah hisses, smacking him on the knee. “Pay attention.”

Louis shrugs and faces forward. He forces his eyes to remain open, lids heavy. “I am, Ma.”

“You’re staring of into space, Louis. This is God’s home, not a high school class room.”

Louis rolls his eyes, but sits up straighter in the pew, but he can’t help how his thoughts drift further and further away from  _Virgo Maria_. His hands twitch in his lap and his chest gets tighter: a sign that something is off, that his OCD is detecting something’s out of order, something he needs to fix. His eyes scan his surroundings until they land on a Lottie Tomlinson’s Céline handbag on the floor, the one that Louis had bought her as a gift— _bribe_ —to keep her quiet from what she saw and heard during their short stay in Paris a few weeks back.

(The thought of what happened that weekend in Paris makes him shudder and smile all at once; it was a  _great_  night. Perhaps not so much for his sister, who happened to walk in at the wrong time.)

The front pocket is unzipped and two hot pink bunny ears from her phone case are sticking out brightly. He stares at it for some time, debating whether or not to lean over his  _other_  little sister to push the phone all the way down into the pocket and zip it up, when he feels someone’s gaze on him and looking up he sees Lottie’s bright pink, made-up smirk. The blonde teenager rolls her blue eyes and lifts the purse up to her lap, shoving the phone and the ears in the pocket, zipping it closed. Louis nods and turns back towards the front, breathing easy and straightening his tie.

He has never been officially diagnosed, and he never wants to be. He knows what he has:  _Obsessive compulsion disorder_ , among many other things, but he likes to control it for himself. Fuck tiny pills that pick and prod at his brain; he’ll fix it how he wants to. The last thing he needs is to feel like a zombie again. Besides, it always helps him stay organized and on task when it comes to the job. 

Besides him, the smallest twin (and certainly the one Louis secretly likes the most), Phoebe, leans her head against his shoulder and looks up at him with a small smile. His whole body is fighting against her, fighting to quickly shove her remotely-innocent little face away from him, or honestly, to move forwards, but that would just cause her head to slam backwards from the suddenly missing support and hit the pew. _That_ would only bring nagging from his mom and a quick look their way from everyone in mass.

It’s not Phoebe or Lottie or anyone's fault that he has a problem with touching and sometimes it does makes him feel bad, like when Daisy wants to sit next to him at Sunday dinners and talk and talk and _talk_ and cuddle up close to him. Or when his sister, Fizzy, begs to spend the night at his place and dirties up the kitchen and guest room—it’s just the way he’s programmed and the way his mind works. No touching: not from family, especially not from strangers.  _Especially_  not from gross, snotty children full of germs and, well, snot.

With that being said, family is one of the most important things to a big, Sicilian-Italian American family like Louis’—along with religion and trust. As the second biological grand-son to Adamo Tomlinson, deceased son of the still living Francisco Tomlinson ne De Rossi, and born after brothers Liam and Zayn, Louis would normally not be even considered to take over when Johannah retires; the first son is always the one who will reign someday, but of course, there’s always exceptions.

Liam Tomlinson—first grand-son to Adamo, son to deceased Felice Tomlinson and Johannah—should get the title. After Felice Tomlinson died, three years after Liam’s birth, Johannah was quick to imbed the second son of Adamo, Marcos, who quickly became the new Boss after his brother’s mysterious death. That’s something Louis could never understand about his father and mother. How did it feel okay to get married and pregnant so soon after his uncle’s death?

Liam’s a smart fellow, everyone knows that, and physically strong with bulk and muscles and abs that he loves to show off by constantly walking around shirtless. However, even under all that muscle, there is a boy who loves to play around and read comic books and casually make remixes of Top40 songs. Unlike his young years, Liam now never takes anything too seriously, and that is another reason why Johannah was so hesitant to give her first son the crown and more willing to give it to Louis. Yes, Liam can take down a lobby-full of Federals with a telephone and post-it notes from the main desk, but his mind and thinking skills aren’t as sharp as his bulky frame.

Zayn, on the other hand, has the coolness and quick-thinking abilities to take the crown. The only problem is the most important thing—only a true descendant, one who carries the blood of Francisco De Rossi can become leader. Felice and Johannah adopted him when he was just two years old, a long while before Louis was born, but only a year before Felice’s death.

The big, golden-eyed boy was son of a heinous leader who supplied guns mostly to South Asia and ran an underground women and children slave trade, an organization the Tomlinson’s had battled against for years. After the organization was wiped out, Zayn was left in a shit orphanage in Pakistan, and Johannah, having heard of the young survivor, had outright refused to keep him there, promptly adopting him and bringing him to Chicago. The thin, tan male would never be able to take over for the Tomlinson’s, but was more than happy to be a part of the quickly-growing crime family.

The victory in and around South Asia changed things rapidly, urging other crime families and organizations to either get with them, or get wiped off. They soon got to the top, beating out other Italians, the Irish, Mexican, Colombians, and the stubborn Russians. They soon had syndicates all around the globe and people on their knees for forgiveness, or more time, or for their simple lives.

That’s one thing Louis is most proud off—who doesn’t like to say their family and their organization is the most feared, envied, and powerful in the world? It shoots a thrill down his veins knowing that in ten, twenty, maybe thirty years, he’ll be the one leading them all, succeeding, and making criminals alike cower in their boots — all because of him and his family.

They deal almost everything—from guns, to the finest drugs, to just about any illegal import, but guns are the Tomlinson’s specialty. Louis learned his way around most guns by the time he turned thirteen, could arm and disarm them, take them apart and build them back together just as easily. Although all three boys, and soon to be Lottie, were sent off to prestigious business schools around the country, Johannah made sure to use everything both Adamo, Felice, and Marcos taught her when it came to teaching her children how to use a gun.

Precious stones, like the rarest diamonds found in the deep jungles of Africa, the finest, purest cocaine and heroin, and buckets of money are always going through their true mafia connections, but unlike the Russians and the Colombians and many other crime families, something they never, ever touch are humans. Francisco would never entertain the thought of human trading, turned his nose on those who did such un-godly things. The Tomlinson’s aren’t  _all_  that bad.

Beneath Louis’ mother, are probably more than two thousand people working every day, all around the globe. From the biggest cities like Mexico City and New York, to the richest, like Luxembourg or Singapore, to the poorer ones surrounding Rio de Janeiro; she controls every single one of them. It’s not an easy job; Louis can see just how stressful and dedicating watching over thousands of people can be, but no one usually sticks around for too long. It’s business, of course, and most are greedy fuckers.

In their large, immediate family, there are around six people who can make decisions, starting with Johanna, of course, moving down to Louis, then to Liam and Zayn, and even eighteen-year-old Lottie voices her opinion from time to time. Dan Deakin, his mother’s new husband, although a strong-willed and thoughtful person who signed the contract, still doesn’t make any decisions. They have their associates who fulfill those important decisions when Louis and the boys can't. 

“Louis!” Johannah slaps his knee again, reaching around Daisy, snapping him out of his redundant thoughts. “Do not anger me, not in the House of God. Pay attention, or so with God’s will—!”

Louis holds back a whine, nodding. “I am paying attention. Father Wilson is speaking about redemption, Ma.” He bites back a grin when Johannah sends him a glare. Even when his brain is thinking, working itself up, a small part of him always knows what’s going on, always keeps watch.

Liam snickers behind them and Louis almost cracks his neck turning around. His oldest brother is grinning at him obnoxiously, brown eyes becoming half-moons over his cheeks, with a bulky arm carelessly, yet purposefully, thrown around Zayn’s thin frame. He wants to blurt out bullshit about the way they’re sat so closed together, Zayn resting almost completely on Liam’s broad chest, but he rolls his eyes and turns back around.

“Cunts,” he breathes.

“Dick,” Liam shoots back too loudly.

Johannah gasps quietly, like she’s suddenly too surprised by their behaviors and hisses. “This is the home of God, Jesus Christ, and the Holy Spirit. We do not speak like that here. You’ve all earned yourself a confession with the Father after mass.”

Liam groans and Lottie whips her head around to scowl at her family, leaning behind Phoebe and Louis to complain to her mother. She glares at everyone and Fizzy lets out a tired sigh.

“Wait, all of us? I wasn’t even doing anything,” Lottie protests. “Father Wilson is totally a little kid toucher! Why would you want to punish us like that?”

“Seriously, Ma,” Zayn agrees, speaking up for the first time in a bored, low tone. “He totally hit on me and seemed a bit  _too_  interested last time I confessed to, uh, watching porn.”

Johannah rolls her eyes. “Now you can confess to spreading lies about other people. And yes, Charlotte, I’ve seen you trying to text on your phone. All of you are going to confession and that’s final,” she harshly whispers before facing the front and giving Father Wilson her undivided attention.  Dan just chuckles from besides her and takes her hand.

It’s funny, to be honest, possibly laughable, to see all nine of the Tomlinson’s, plus one Deakin, in mass, sat front row under the hawk-like watch of Father Wilson. It’s not like they have an option; it’s a value great-grandfather Francisco made sure to establish in his family. After the death of not only his leading son, but both of his grandsons, he asked Johannah to develop a relationship with God in all her children, to take them to Sunday mass every weekend. Of course, she agreed, already accustomed to the ritual while being married to both Felice and Marcos.

Francisco confessed that the more inconspicuous you are, the more  _normal_  you seem to the world, the less people you have trailing on your ass. The weekdays were for the mob, for killing, stealing, gaining, for crime; whilst the weekends were for family, for normalcy.

On the  _normal_  schedule, Louis and the rest of them are forced to a family dinner Saturday night, that includes not only them ten, but the rest of the Tomlinson’s—the big, extended family; around forty people, most blood-related, some not, make it to the Tomlinson estate with empty bellies, ready to gorge on home-made Italian food. On Sunday, it’s an hour or so at morning mass and then another thirty minutes visiting the Rosehill Cemetery blocks away.

They change the wilting flowers on Liam, Louis, and the girls’ respective fathers’ graves, and on Johannah’s mom’s, too, all dressed to the nines no matter the weather. They go back to the estate to eat and relax, and come Monday it’s back to business: drugs, guns, money, pure filth. The usual. It's their normal. 

A mistake a lot of mobsters, or wanna-be's, if Louis' truthful, is not having a legit job. If the Tomlinson gang didn’t, it’d be hard to explain to just about everyone how they have millions in their each, respective bank accounts. Even Lottie is soon reaching her own, hard-worked first millions without an honest job, her money in some Swiss bank account. Their Harvard and Yale degrees help out significantly, placing the three brothers in the best, high-earning jobs, allowing them to create their own companies, letting them live luxuriously without touching their mafia money. Plus, according to everyone not in the know, Johannah Tomlinson worked her way up to CEO of one of the busiest hedge-fund companies after Marcos’ death, before simply buying it out _. As if,_  Louis thinks.

“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, you can all now go with peace.” Father Wilson ends the mass at the front of the aisle. “May the Lord be with you all, my children.”

“And with you,” the crowed rumbles back, bowing their head and accepting the Father’s blessing.

Louis bites back a scoff and remains silent. He never misses a mass only because of Johannah. He could, of course, just say  _fuck_   _it_ , and go downstairs to his gym or even read a book, or something; what can his mother do? Ground him? He’s twenty-four years old, for fuck’s sake, he doesn’t  _have_  to make it every Sunday at eight am, but he does just to please his mother. He might not want to find what happens if he doesn't show up, though, not that he'd admit it. 

She’s not bad to them, not really; she’s the sweetest woman to her daughters, stern, but gentle. Fizzy likes to call her an inspiration: A woman in charge, a woman on top, a woman who got what she wanted in a dangerous world dominated by men, a woman who fights for the rights of other women, meanwhile having some of the cruelest, most dangerous men on their knees. Johannah is the first woman to ever take charge in a mafia family, and even Louis can admit that’s impressive as hell. She’s the only woman Louis has ever learned to like, besides his annoying little sisters—women aren’t in his slightest interests.

No one knows that, of course, no one besides his tight-knit family. He can only imagine the uproar that would happen if everyone—from the tabloids, to the most important crime leaders around the world—found out he was gay. It wouldn’t end well. So for right now, and for probably the rest of his life, he’s stuck standing in the darkest, deepest corner of his gigantic walk-in closet. That doesn’t mean he never gets his dick wet— _of course he does_. He’s one of the country’s most eligible bachelors; he has men and woman kneeling in front of him with just a snap of his fingers, with just a nod of his head, with just a look their way. He doesn’t mind a blowjob here and there from a fairly-attractive young woman, but flat out refuses to fuck one. He’s never been  _that_  desperate; and if anyone ever threatens to go to the press, tries to out him, he can get rid of them with a snap of his fingers, nod of his head—easy.

Once the cathedral is cleared, the Tomlinson’s are still sat quietly in their pews, waiting for the father to give them the go-ahead on confessions. He slowly enters the confession booth and Johannah stands, turning towards them.

“Liam, why don’t you go first—tell Father all about the filthy mouth of yours,” she simply says. It’s not a suggestion, but a demand, but Liam still tries to fight it.

“What,  _why_? Louis called us cunts!”

Johannah just shakes her head and drags him out of the pew by his button-up sleeve. “Go.” She pushes him towards the confessional. As he walks away, she turns back towards them, eyes zooming in on Zayn. “You’re next, mister. Don’t you think of me so clueless.”

When she’s preoccupied by Daisy and Phoebe’s chatter, Zayn leans forward against the back of Louis’ pew. He stays like that for a couple minutes and Louis just wants to smack him, but opts for turning around and facing his brother.

“No, I didn’t tell her;  _no_ , no one knows,” he says lowly before the older male can get a word out.

Zayn nods and looks to his right, where Liam’s long-term girlfriend, Sophia, is talking quietly with Lottie at the end of the bench, long, light brown hair cascading over one shoulder. “Thanks, Lou. I—we really appreciate it.”

Louis makes a disgusted face. “I—we, I—we,” he mocks. “You’re disgusting, both of you are, you know that? Talking for one another, finishing each other’s sentences, taking about each other  _non-stop_ ; it’s truly, madly disgusting. Why am I the only one who has to suffer through this?”

Zayn has the audacity to blush red and duck his head. “You  _know_  why,” he mumbles into his arm, lips moving around the dark blue, designer fabric.

Louis really,  _really_  wishes he didn’t know. If he could go back in time, rewind, he would knock loud as fuck before entering Zayn’s room. “And you  _know_  why you can’t keep this a secret forever. Mom’s going to find out, great-grandfather Francisco will know, too.”

Zayn doesn’t get to reply, because Liam’s bounding out of confessional with his ears tipped red—either Father Wilson tried to remove the divider and sneak a grope in, or he confessed something incredibly dirty and embarrassing—passing by both of them and sitting next to Sophia, sneaking a quick kiss on the cheek, before shooing Lottie away, who only rolls her eyes and sits back up front with Fizzy and the twins.

Zayn grits his perfect, white teeth together and stands up to go confess himself, patting Louis on the back, which only causes the younger man to cringe slightly. Louis goes to face the front, but his eyes catch Liam’s following Zayn before quickly snapping to his and returning his attention to his girlfriend. There’s always something about confession that makes his oldest brother act like an apostle for a day or two, and it’s the most pathetic thing. 

It’s not Sophia’s fault, of course not. She fits in perfectly with the family, if you don’t count Zayn’s cold shoulder and the awkwardness Louis feels when she’s in the room. The girl is lovely, with long legs and plump lips, which came in handy one night when Louis had a bit too much coke in his body and Sophia wanted to suck up—this makes Louis chuckle—to her new boss’ son. Only Zayn and Lottie know about that incident, but Louis isn’t too sure Liam would care much if he somehow found out.

“Louis?” his mother calls, from a few seats down. “Why don’t we go for a walk while the family is in confessional?”

Liam snaps his head up and scowls. “Why doesn’t Louis have to confess? We all fucking know he needs forgiveness the most!”

Louis can’t argue with the last statement, but no way in hell is he going to confess himself. He has nothing to say—well, nothing that wouldn’t give good, ol’ Father Wilson heart palpitations or make him want to soak in a bath of holy water for a week straight.

“I’ll see you at the cemetery. Louis and I need to have a little chat before you boys go out on business.” Johannah smiles too sweetly at Liam and Louis.

“Thought you were taking the day off?” Phoebe asks from her seat, concern written over her young face.  Out of all the sisters, the girl worries the most about her mom and older brothers, panicking when she doesn’t see them for a few days.

“No can do, Pheebs.” Liam shrugs apologetically at her. “Money doesn’t wait for anyone.”

The young girl rolls her cerulean eyes and Louis feels a little pang in his chest at the familiar sight—it’s like looking in a younger, female mirror. She leans against his arm and pats his leg. “We have to go put flowers at the cemetery, so I probably won’t see you tonight, Lou.” She pouts. “Text me goodnight?”

When Zayn comes out of confessional, face flushed and angry, Lottie goes in after him with several complaints. Louis agrees to text his little sister goodnight, reassuring her he’ll get home safe and sound, most likely make it to dinner.  Louis kisses his sisters on their cheeks quickly, nods at Dan and Sophia, completely ignores Liam’s stupid self, and pats Zayn on the back, before he and Johannah slip out of the large, wooden doors.

“When are they going to give up?” Johannah wonders out loud, eyes trained on a conspicuous black car across the cathedral, and entangles her arm with Louis’. “Verging on the edge of pathetic, no; it  _is_  pathetic.”

Louis walks them over to the corner of the street, where his precious, black Aston Martin waits. He unlocks it and shrugs out of his light jacket, draping it across the back of the passenger seat. He locks the car back up again and spends a few seconds in front of the car window making sure his quiff hasn’t fallen in the slightest. His hairstylist had been out of the country for  _weeks_ , and the young man didn’t trust anyone besides her with a pair of scissors to his strands. He waited and waited, even threatened to go see her in Australia, and the second her fight touched down, insisted on a cut. He didn’t want fucking dad hair.

“You’re perfect,  _bambino_ , let’s go.” Jay drags him away from the window. “We need to have a serious talk, me and you.”

“What’s up, Ma?”

“Just keep walking,” she insists, hurrying along the side walk in her sky-high pumps.

They stop at a corner and Louis invites his mother to a fro-yo with extra strawberry slices on top. They move along the park in an easy stride, comfortable; it’s always relaxed when it’s just the two of them, talking like any normal mother and son. Sometimes he gets the old Johannah, the one who is just his mother and the former wife of the Boss, not the Boss herself.

It’s definitely not the same when it comes to their business; he doesn’t particularly like Mob Boss Johannah, doesn’t agree with some of her tactics, and that causes a strain on their relationship. But that’s nothing compared to the way they became after Louis came out—she was livid, fuming, throwing first-edition books and fountain pens at him.

  _It’s a sin, Louis William, you are an abomination_ , she would scream.  _May God Almighty help you, son, because this is too out of my control._ She woke up the whole mansion that night.  _Imagine if the Russians found out, Louis! You’re a dead man if that ever happens, dead!_

“Am I in trouble?” Louis asks bluntly.

“No, love, just keep walking. There’s a man the size of Preston following behind us, one of the Feds,” she confesses. “Don’t look!” She grabs his jaw before he can sneak a glance behind them.

After a few noiseless moments, they sit on an empty bench, and continue to enjoy their frozen yogurt like nothing’s happening. “Is it Jacen Wilds?” Louis already damn well knows who he is—the lowly detective has obviously been following his ass for the last few weeks.

“Just keep eating. They can’t read our lips.” She swallows another bite before continuing. “He’s been on the force for a few years now, bouncing around before finally settling in as some detective or another. They have a whole team on us, tracking us down, but they can’t get anything.”

Louis smirks. “Fucking right. We’re too good,” he exclaims.

Johannah just slaps his thigh and scowls. “Don’t get cocky, Louis. Nothing good comes from such ignorance.”

Louis nods. "Sorry, Ma."

“Who was in charge of the Lockleys?”

Louis slowly puts his spoon back in the small, plastic container and meets her furious, clear blue eyes. “I was, Ma. I handled it.”

His mother lets out a frustrated sigh and tucks a strand of hair behind her diamond studded ear. The small, careless action suddenly reminds him that Johannah Tomlinson isn’t perfect, either. “I can clearly recall  _demanding_  you to keep quiet about that, Louis. Then Liam tells me that the damn, snobby wife of his was killed and that there was blood covering every  _surface of the room_. Do you know what this does to us?” She pauses for a millisecond before continuing with her lecture. “Get your head in the game, Louis. You’re being reckless and dirty, and I cannot have that once I leave my position. We’ve been lucky numerous, numerous times, but that luck can only stretch so far,  _bambino_. Get yourself together.”

“I’m sorry,” Louis can only reply with disappointment. He let his mother down, but he let himself down most importantly. That never happens. Although hearing his mother talk about his future as  _Re_ , makes his blood run fast in his body, the anger on her face numbs it all. He can’t wait to shed his title as  _Il Principe._

She waves him off and pats his arm. “Don’t apologize unless you need to, Louis, you know this. Just stop messing around. Do your job correctly—the family doesn’t have the time or the energy for gratuitous mistakes.”

Johannah stands back up and Louis follows her back toward the exit of the park. Louis is silent before, “Did you get it cleaned up?”

“Made it out to robbery—took a Chagall from the dining room. I got it all cleaned up and everything—some poor idiot took the fall for it; the case is sealed and done. That... _man_ , Wilds, was begging for it to reopen as homicide, but no one bought into it.” They throw their empty cups into a trashcan and continue moving. “The matter of the fact is that I had to clean up after you like a child, Louis. I can’t do that anymore, nor will I. I have four growing, demanding daughters to look after, a new, idiotic husband to keep watch of—I refuse to clean up after you three boys.”

“I won’t fuck up again,” Louis asserts.

They’re silent as they navigate themselves out of the park. A breeze flows carelessly and Louis sighs at the feeling. It’s not as hot as previous summers in Chicago, something that everyone finds odd. Lake Michigan should be filled with tourists and locales cooling off in the sweet water, but everyone seems to be enjoying the calm weather on land. Autumn is just around the corner, his favorite season, and he’s looking forward to the holidays. They walk back to their cars in front of the cathedral, noting that the rest of the family has already left, paying their respects at Rosehill.

His skin prickles and he can feel the weight of someone looking at him. Across the street, Wilds is calmly pretending to read Holy Name’s bulletin board, eyes twitching every time he risks a look their way. Louis can’t help the grin that spreads across his face at the sight of another heavy-built man sneaking looks at them—those lowlife detectives, following them around like dumb, pitiful puppies.

Louis guesses that part of it is his fault—his job at the Lockleys’ was poorly-manufactured, but everyone knew that Joseph Lockleys was going to get it sooner or later. Louis isn’t a man of virtue, especially not patience. Lockleys was once an employee of the family, their main accountant for all illegal bookings; a kind yet dull man the few times Louis had met with him, but the Tomlinson heir has no kindness for crooks who steal from him or his family _._

And unluckily for Lockleys, he was a thief. When Louis was studying the books, he noticed that millions of dollars went missing in a Bermuda off-shore account, one that Johannah had kept for all Caribbean dealings. Unacceptable. He questioned Lockleys one night, and while the man trembled and stuttered, he revealed nothing that Louis could use against him, so he was let go. The second time a large sum of money went missing it was for a large, spacey apartment in the heart of Paris that added up to three million.

Mrs. Lockleys, the poor woman who had to deal with a bore of a husband in exchange for shopping trips to Paris and Givenchy gowns that could rival those of a silver screen siren, was just a simple causality. He hadn’t expected to crash their  _oh so lovely, oh so romantic_  night. He caught them just as soon as Mrs. Lockleys was lubing up a strap-on, which was the most shocking part of that damn night—he didn’t think Joseph had it in him. So to speak.

All in all, the crook and his kinky wife are just a single dot of blood on Louis Tomlinson’s rough hands. It doesn’t bother him; after all, he washes his hands quite frequently.  The copious amount of blood he left behind was a message, something that Wilds and his cronies surely understand. He had fun and let himself go for once, flinging the liquid around the room, staining the expensive rugs and upholstery (even if he did get his favorite pair of low-time Vans dirty.)

“Don’t you worry, Ma,” Louis declares, staring at Wilds’ scrunched up, old face. “He won’t be a problem—none of them will.”

“Obviously. We’re too smart for that.”

Louis turns towards his mother and raises an eyebrow. “Thought it wasn’t good to have so much confidence.”

“When you’ve been doing what I have for so many years, you can be as cocky as you want, Lou,” she replies with a short laugh. “C’mon, let’s go. I’m sure the girls and Zayn are getting impatient; we might still make it. We have to pay our dues.”

They both climb into the sports car without a glance back at the detectives, and spend another hour at Rosehill. He leaves a bundle of white daisies on the headstone of a grandmother he never met, and red tulips on the flashy headstone of an uncle, Liam’s father, he never met. Finally, he places white roses on the grave of his father, Marcos. His mom tells them all that white roses were his favorite, but of course, Louis doesn’t remember. Frankly, he can’t make himself give a rat’s ass about some flowers.

His father and uncle, two of the most powerful bosses of their time, died from idiocy and so-called love. They both trusted a woman with a pretty smile and captivating eyes that learned quickly how to fuck them both over, how to kill them both, and take their reigns. Johannah will never admit to planning Felice and Marcos Tomlinson’s deaths, she’s not stupid, but great-grandfather Francisco once told Louis that he believes she got rid of them, kissed them both with poison swirling in her tongue, so powerful that she seduced them both into their death beds. A black widow. 

Louis places a hand on his chest and feels for the same small, gold cross and equally-sized gold  _cuornuciello_  that has hung around his neck since he was a baby, protecting him from such spirits like the  _malocchio_ , or the evil eye _._  He knows his mother would never do any harm to her children, but he’s also more aware that the ruthless woman trusts no one—not her sons or daughters, especially not her new curious husband; only God himself has her trust.

He doesn’t realize he’s staring at his mother’s somber expression until Lottie strikes up a conversation with him. Everyone says their goodbyes, Johannah exclaiming she’s expecting everyone over for dinner and Louis’ interest could only pike when the woman sends her eldest daughter a look that can only be described as  _test me, Charlotte, and you will feel my wrath._  It was the same look he had received at thirteen and on; surely Lottie is too young for boys, right?  She isn’t asking to be excused from dinner for a  _date_ , right?

Louis climbs into his car moments later and a calm feeling comes over him as he hears his baby purr to life. He stretches her legs, flying through highways, cursing those who attempt to slow him down. He is free until dinner time, and after then the Tomlinson boys have a business appointment. He’s rolling his eyes at the young girl in the front seat of a Merc who has her head bowed down, looking up every few seconds and breaking chaotically. A texter.  He flies around and feels his own iPhone vibrate in the drink holder. He picks it up and shrugs; he’s possessive and temperamental, takes shit from no one, but he’s not as reckless enough as to kill himself by texting. Teenagers, he sighs. He rapidly taps on the large screen on his dashboard and quickly, Liam’s voice travels through the car.

“Are you ready? I just dropped Sophia and Zayn off, oh, my God, it was the most awk—”

“Why are you calling me?” Louis snaps, not wanting to hear about the uncomfortable and heavy atmosphere in Liam’s white Lambo, or how tense the ride up in the elevator to their respective apartments must have been. He tries not to judge, but fuck it—he’s  _not_  God, no matter how much he unintentionally convinces people. He loves both of his brothers, but can’t help but secretly side with Zayn.

“Just wanted to make sure you were ready; Mom wants us to go through with the plan now instead of after dinner...”

He tightens his hands around the leather steering wheel, completely annoyed with the change of plans, knuckles turning white with pressure, and yanks the steering wheel to the left, jerking his car around to make a complete one-eighty, tumbling into another lane. “I’m heading back to the city now, should be around half an hour until I make it to the warehouse. See you then.” He goes to end the call, but Liam shouts.

“Wait! Lou, um, about Zayn? Should you get him or should I? It’s just a bit awkward and—”

Louis hangs up anyway; he can’t deal with the complete bullshit mess his brothers got themselves into—it makes him want to puke. They’re so whipped, such pussies, and Louis has had enough of it. They obviously love each other, even as nasty as the whole concept of love is, and even if they’re not related by blood—it doesn’t matter. He couldn’t get through all of Titanic—it was so boring, the only reason he managed to get halfway through was young Leo’s enchanting lips—so he’s definitely not going to stand by and come in the middle of whatever Zayn and Liam have gotten themselves into—another pathetic, unnecessary tragedy with bullshit on  _love_  and  _forever_.

_Don’t care_ , Louis thinks.

At a stoplight, he leans over and reaches inside the glove box, pulling out his favorite, all-gold Desert Eagle; his baby. The gold eagle only comes out on special occasions—when he wants to finish the life of someone unworthy and show off a bit at the same time. When he reaches the warehouse parking lot, a Lamborghini, a black matte color that has Louis rolling his eyes, is already there. He pulls up next to it and from inside his own car can sense the tension between his two brothers. The moment he steps out of his Aston Martin, his foot goes deep into a murky, brown puddle, and the nasty water sinks underneath his socks, halfway drenching his Gucci brogues.

He shakes as much water from his foot as he can, feeling much like a stray dog left out in the rain over night, and closes his eyes, counting to ten. He can’t let the wet, moist feeling get to him, he mustn’t, or else he’ll be irate and angry, unable to focus. He can't make another mistake. He does not need Johannah Tomlinson lecturing him again.

Zayn gets out of the sports car and, without a word, hastily climbs into the backseat. They’ve had fistfights and petty arguments over things such as dumb as shot-gun, but Louis can feel that his brother doesn’t want to be near Liam at the moment, preferring the back seat, and sits up front wordlessly.

The drive to a sketchier part of town, where a bigger, darker warehouse stands, is completely silent and tense. He almost snaps at Zayn, who’s busy texting a rando, to turn his phone off unless he wants his location to be traced and whatever murder that’s going to occur soon, to be pinned on him. But he manages to keep his mouth shut, even when Liam turns on  _Cameras_ , by Drake, of all things. He’s careful to look before he steps out once the car is pulled up and turned off.

“Why are we here?” Zayn mumbles and throws his now-shut off phone onto the back seat before slamming the door with a little too much force, the slam echoing throughout the silent night. Louis has to bite his lip from bursting out in cackles when Liam flinches and apologetically runs a hand on the smooth, matte material of the car.

“Mom wants to check on this guy—he has information about the dealings in Mexico that he shouldn’t have.” Liam scrolls through his phone and nods in confirmation, before placing it in his baggy, back pocket.

_Idiot_.

“So he’s just a random employee, then? Hate little rats, always snooping around.”

“Mom thinks he might be a copper,” Liam replies, only looking at Zayn, who flat out ignores him, turning his head away.

Louis sighs in annoyance at their childish, elementary-school behavior. They’re here to kill someone who could possibly cause harm to their whole family, yet they are acting like Liam had pushed Zayn off the swings or tugged on his ponytails. This has to be karma for something shitty Louis' done in the past—fuck, this could be payback for what Lottie had to see that night in Paris.

“Come on, idiots.” He leads them through a heavy, steel door, on alert and with his gun cocked on his hip, finger on the trigger. They walk through the warehouse quietly, and Liam curses himself on forgetting the night vision goggles, which causes Zayn to snort. They quickly reach the back of the building and check inside a small room through the half-window, half-wall.

“Let’s do this,” Louis mumbles, leading his brothers into the tiny office, pointing his gun at the blue and purple, severely bruised young man tied tight with rope, slumped on a chair. They approach the man calmly. 

“What’s your name?” Zayn asks, fury and danger back into his golden eyes. He kicks the chair, almost tumbling the whole thing back. “I asked what your name was.”

“Javier,” the man groans with a thick accent, rolling his dark hazel eyes up at them.

Louis nods and meets the glances of his brothers—this is no Fed, not a cop, but a Mexican narc—or at least a weak one who works for the infamous drug traffickers. 

The man has dark, dirty skin underneath violet bruises and a head full of thick, black hair. He speaks with a Northern Mexican accent and refuses to meet their eyes for more than a second. He is bulky with broad shoulders and a crooked nose—someone who would’ve been a challenge to Louis’ strong, yet small person, if the man wasn’t food and water deprived. And by the obvious groan that escapes his blood-red mouth the second Zayn picks up a half-empty water bottle from the desk several feet away from him and dangles it in front of his face, he probably hasn't had a drop of water in hours, maybe days.

“Who do you work for?” Liam asks, thick brows furrowed in determination.

The brothers know who his boss is, but always find some sort of pleasure at beating the rats until they cave in and release information, speak like traitors. Louis, and everyone in the family, including the young, silent Fizzy, know better than to say anything about their organization. It wouldn’t matter if small, little Phoebe had a bazooka practically glued to her skull with an enemy ready to pull the trigger if Louis didn't speak—he wouldn’t make a sound.

He would try to help her, of course, if that was the case scenario or in  _any_  case scenario at all. He would succeed, obviously—Louis Tomlinson has escaped out of worse situations without a fucking scratch on his heavily-tattooed body or a hair out of place. Actions speak louder than words, obviously. In the end, where your loyalties stand is where you stand.

The Mexican is asked once again who he works for and just presses his lips together. It happens so fast that Louis blinks and almost misses it, but the scream of agony coming from the rat’s mouth reassures him. Zayn stands there with his gun pulled out and there are two bullet-sized holes in the man’s knee caps, blood pooling out rapidly.

Louis is stunned—Zayn usually never participates in the torture they provoke; he likes to sit back and watch. He’s more sensitive than Liam and Louis, prefers to sit in his art studio and spray paint enormous blank canvases than go hunting. Louis can still remember when they went to Japan on business and Zayn flipped when he found out that they would be catching their meals from the pond inside the restaurant. He refused to catch anything in the nets, sat out on an excellent dinner, declaring how he hated to see the animal struggle. He didn’t like it. So the fact that he’s threatening a man, kicking his injured kneecaps with the hard tip of his sturdy Doc Martins instead of waiting patiently, definitely shows how pissed he is at Liam, and for a moment Louis fears for his stupid, oldest brother. Just for a few seconds.

The narc refuses to answer any more questions and this time Louis has the honors. He puts a hole through one side of the man’s collarbones, the bullet ripping through the skin and tearing though the bone, coming out the other end, and Louis watches as he hurls out in distress, tears falling freely on his cheeks and leaving clean trail marks. Louis can smell the salt from his tears as he lowers his face close to the Javier’s, cringing automatically at the dirty smell; he clearly hasn’t showered in weeks.Louis nudges the fresh wound with the nose of his gold-plated gun and the man locks his jaw.

“I-I work for L-Lopez,” he gets out through clenched teeth, eyes squeezed shut. “He’s a-a new man, b-but I do not k-k-know who he works f-for. Lo-Lopez sent me he-here to spy on th-things.”

Louis rolls his eyes and with a calm hand blows through the skin and bone of the left side of his chest. His skin prickles as he hears the bullet leave the body, an almost inaudible clank falling onto the concrete floor. “That was too easy.” He pouts. “You didn’t let us have any fun at all.”

“If I was your boss, you would’ve been a dead man weeks ago, Javier,” Zayn agrees with a deadly, cool tone. His face is relaxed as he kicks the man’s kneecaps again, harder, stronger. “You don’t—you  _don’t_  betray your people like that,” he growls, out of character. Javier opens his mouth once more with much difficulty, but before any stuttered, pained words gurgle up, Zayn sticks the whole barrel of his Colt All American in, gagging the man who doesn’t stop squirming, eyes filling up with fresh tears, silently begging for air. Zayn clicks his tongue in annoyance. “You don’t betray your people, you disgusting piece of shit.”

The loud sound of the bullet leaving at the speed of lightning and ripping through the man’s skull from the upwards angle, the crack of his cranium, or the splatter of brain guts and rich blood doesn’t stop Louis from hearing Liam’s nervous gulp. The man lies on the floor as the pressure from the gun breaking through his body slammed him back and down onto the cold, hard ground. Zayn slowly turns around and gives Louis a close-lipped smile like nothing had happened, like his actions weren’t completely and utterly out of character, and—and totally badass,  _insane_ , of him to do.

Although Louis is feet away from the man and his explosive brain, blood still splattered on his light blue, Alexander Wang dress shirt. He quickly looks at his brothers, who are just staring at the disfigured body, and notes that they have not one speck of blood around them.  _Fucking twats_ , Louis thinks.

“You’re always so fucking messy,” Zayn says, looking him up and down with judgmental eyes. “Look at me.” He twirls around in a circle. “Clean as a whistle, I am.”

“Fuck you,” Louis snarls. “I have to change before dinner or Ma will give me shit.” Johannah always expects her sons and daughters to drag their asses down to dinner in fresh, clean clothes. Blood at the dinner table is not acceptable.

Liam bursts into laughter, his brown eyes shutting from the force of his cheeks, so Louis walks over to the man and grabs a handful of what he’s sure are brain particles from the squishy, warm texture, and hauls it directly at his Liam’s shirt. “You fucker!” Liam yells, face flushing red. “Fuck you, Louis! You  _know_  this is Sophia’s favorite shirt on me.” He wipes off the brain parts with one hand, gagging, as he sees it splattered on his blue jeans, as well.

“No, actually I didn’t know that, you little bitch.” Louis surges forward and Zayn automatically hands him the small can of gasoline. He pours it on the body, on the walls, on practically every corner of the cramped office space. “And I really, _really_  don’t care.” He flips his brother off with one hand, ignoring the quickly changing atmosphere at the mention of Sophia’s name. When they’re all backed up and out of the room, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a white BIC lighter.

They watch the flames engulf the area before it starts getting too hot and the fire starts spreading. They rush out of there, a precaution just in case anyone in the low-income neighborhood decides to call the police, which Louis doubts.  After hopping back into the Lambo and enduring a short, tense ride, Louis waves goodbye to his brothers and almost has his car completely pulled out of the parking space before there’s a knock on the passenger window—Zayn. The twenty-five-year-old has a sheepish smile on his face and runs a hand though his high, black quiff before pulling back as if he was burned. Everyone has to have good hair at dinners, too. He pulls the door open and hops in without a second look towards Liam, who from what Louis can see, is moping in the driver’s seat of his own car, and looking like someone kicked his puppy.

“You don’t mind, do you? Going the same place and everything.”

Louis doesn’t answer, instead pulls out quickly. Of course he doesn’t mind, but the words  _Liam’s going the same direction_  are on the tip of his tongue. He hands his gun to his brother, who stuffs it back in the glove box wordlessly. There's no way in hell is he going to let those two love-sick idiots ruin his chances at Boss. No fucking way; he would kill one of them before that ever happens.

Fucking idiots with their love and romance and jealousy, and all that shit Louis runs a different direction from. It’s like, fucking incest, Louis’ sure. Somehow. He is never going to let someone control his life or his emotions like Zayn and Liam do; he would blow his own brains out before settling down with a woman, or worse,  _a man_. Because if he ever did get into a trap, a  _relationship_ , with a man, he wouldn’t even have the chance to worry—the Russians would be blowing his brains out before he could even think it, before he could even pick up a weapon.

_Love_ , Louis scoffs, driving manically towards the Tomlinson mansion. Ridiculous.

 


	2. Prey and Predator

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Not mine. Plot, characters, everything.

 

* * *

 

 

_“A wise man gets more use from his enemies than a fool from his friends.”  ― Baltasar Gracián, The Art of Worldly Wisdom_

 

 

He circles once, twice, bare feet planted steady on the mat. His bright blue eyes are locked seamlessly with his brother’s brown ones, and he knows he’s got this. Liam might be bigger, taller, fucking stronger, but he’s not quick on his feet like Louis, his reflexes aren’t as great; his eyes and body are seconds too slow as Louis shifts around, circling like a predator. Liam doesn’t see it coming before it’s too late and Louis has already lunged like a wildcat, bringing him down loudly on the blue mat, a thud echoing the large room.

The health club isn’t too crowded, in fact it’s quite empty, with Zayn boxing across the room with their personal trainer Mark, surely imagining Liam’s face as the bag. Other random people linger about, not really working out to their full potential; a small group of  girls in bright sports bras and tiny shorts that cling to their thighs watch in delight as the two brothers tackle each other and throw elbows and fists, rolling around the mat—no one said they play nice. But Louis doesn’t notice the gaggle of giggly, flushed girls with their eyes trained on them, he can only focus on his brother, digging his elbow into his ribs. Liam throws him off and Louis rolls over quickly, landing on his two feet again.

“Is that all you’ve got, Liam? C’mon old man,” Louis laughs, taunting him.

Liam growls and launches himself on top of his youngest brother, throwing thick-handed punches on bare skin. “Shut up and fight me, you fucking baby,” he shouts.  He holds him down by the waist, fists meeting ribs, hips, skin absorbing each blow. If there wasn’t small bits of pain shooting through his body, Louis would laugh at Liam’s cute angry face—a small Hulk.

To any outsider, to anyone who didn’t see this every week, they probably sound like two enemies who finally get their hands on each other after years of waiting. If you take away the club and the mat and the wide-eyed girls with their neon-colored shorts, and move the scene to an alleyway with rowdy, drunk spectators—well, it would most likely suit their fists and anger better. It’s just exercise; a dangerous, _fun_ way to use their God-given fighting talents and strengths, and stay in shape. Too much testosterone never ends up good, and fuck, it makes Louis happy when he gets in a real good throw and Liam is bruised like a little boy for days, whining and bitching about losing, promising to take him down come next time.

“C’mon, Lou-Lou,” Liam grins, throwing a fist at Louis’ chest, right on his _It is what it is_ chest piece, and knocks the air out of his lungs for a few seconds. “Hurry up, or _what_ —can’t keep up with the big boys?”

Louis narrows his eyes and lifts his legs up, wrapping his thighs around Liam’s thick neck, and squeezes until his brother starts to go blue in the face, struggling like a poor man wrapped around an anaconda. The moment he slumps forward, struggling for breath and weakens his punches at Louis, the boy tightens his hold on his neck and flips them over, landing graciously on top, pinning him down.

“Okay, that’s enough,” Zayn snaps from outside the ring. When Louis doesn’t start to move from on top, Zayn groans and hops onto the mat, yanking Louis’ body off of a blue-faced Liam after a couple rough tugs. “I’m fucking hungry,” he states, throwing Louis a look before climbing out again.

Louis rolls his eyes and wipes the blood off of his bottom lip. Really? Out of all the reasons to get jealous, Zayn chooses the dumbest one—Louis isn’t into incest, as a matter of fact. He tries to control his heavy breathing and steps off the mat, noticing Zayn’s bloodied, raw knuckles. He only boxes without gloves when he wants it to hurt, when he has something to prove to himself. He’s an actual idiot, Louis knows.

“I need another five with you,” Liam glares at Louis, thick eyebrows furrowed, as he goes to stand up. “I’m not done yet.”

“You always take this too far, both of you.” Zayn speaks up in a bored tone. “Look at this.” He lightly punches Louis’ chest, right over where a new, purple bruise is blossoming. “Look at this!”

Louis shrugs nonchalantly and steps away, slapping his brother’s raw hand. Smirking, he says, “What do you want me to do? _Some_ of us fight to win.”

Liam holds his fist out in a truce and Louis bumps it with his, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. A fist bump? How _bro_ of him. He should remind his brothers of the time he walked in on Zayn on his knees and Liam biting his knuckles to keep quiet—that wasn’t too _bro_ of them, now, was it? Well, actually, Louis wonders, maybe it was a _bit_ too bro of them.

They follow Zayn back to the locker rooms, where they quickly change out of their sweats and Nikes. On the way out of the club and into the parking lot, Louis’ phone dings.

“Ma wants us back at the house,” he tells his brothers, scrolling through his missed text messages.

Liam groans and stops walking in the middle of the garage. “ _Now_?”

“What? Like you’ve got something better to do?” Louis snorts. 

“I’ve got like, this thing with Sophia today,” he admits quietly, gaze shifting to Zayn’s hardened eyes. “’M busy.”

"Seriously?" Louis has to stop himself from reaching over and choking Liam again. He doesn’t need the awkward tension or Zayn’s bitchy moods, he can’t take it anymore. His patience, the small amount of it, is running thin, and he kind of wants to grab Liam and Zayn, press them together like dolls, and have them makeup. Or breakup. Or whatever _, just fix their shit_. It’s driving _Louis_ mad, and that’s not okay, not at all. “What is it with you?” he asks angrily. “Why can’t you just make up your mind already?” Besides him, Zayn freezes to a stand-still.

Liam gapes and snaps his mouth shut. “She’s what I have,” he replies slowly, unsure. “It’s not that difficult, Lou. Just look at Ma. Look at great-grandfather De Rossi. They—we don’t need anymore—anymore—“

“What?” Louis snaps, standing still, red-hot running through his veins. “Anymore _fags_ , is that what you’re saying? No more queers to slow this family down?”

“Lou,” Zayn mumbles, laying a hand on his shoulder.

Louis quickly shrugs it off. “Well, what is it then, Liam? Please enlighten me.”

“I just don’t see the need to go off, fucking my way around town. I have something good right here, Sophia is good for me. She’s good for the family, too.” Liam doesn’t meet his eyes, staring off at any other direction with a pleading look on his face, but the parking lot is completely empty save them. “I’m doing this for the family; I don’t expect you to understand, Louis.”

"Understand," Louis deadpans. The air between them is getting thicker, and Louis has to stop himself from doing something incredibly stupid against his own blood. But how dare Liam talk about what’s best for the family, how he’s doing this—this _thing_ for the family, when he’s only lying to everyone, to Sophia, to himself. It’s disgusting. And no, maybe Louis isn’t one to talk, but he can’t get the furious look in Zayn’s eyes, when he shot the Mexican man last week, out of his mind. “You’re just a liar, among other things,” Louis says, watching Liam’s face harden, and he can’t control the way his hands twitch for the glock tucked into his waistline. “You’re the real actor here, not me.”

“You’ll know what I’m talking about soon,” Liam replies and starts walking again, leaving them behind.

“Let’s just go, please,” Zayn pleads Louis, giving him big, gold, sad eyes and a pout. Is this the same man who blew holes into someone’s kneecaps and laughed as the blood flowed? “I don’t want you two to fight, not over this, not over me. You’re both so stubborn and—“

“It’s fine, Z, it’s alright,” Louis reassures him, leading him towards the waiting Ferrari. “It’s okay.”

They don’t even discuss it as Louis climbs behind Zayn in the driver’s seat—like him a few days ago, Louis doesn’t want to be sat near his sorry excuse of a big brother. The drive is quiet, besides Liam fiddling with the radio like always, but it’s not utterly uncomfortable. His thoughts plague him all the way to the Tomlinson Estate, and Louis just doesn’t understand. Is it love that makes you do crazy shit, like Liam? He knows Liam doesn’t love Sophia, can’t reciprocate it, but then why is he staying with her? _Is_ it for the family like he claims, or is he just as frightened as Louis is? They’ll kill them, all of them, if they find out. Rulers can’t be faggots; that’s what they’ve been taught— _Il Re_ is strong, fearless, but can not run a country, a business, without a woman by his side. Right?

They speed through the highways with the windows down, enjoying the late afternoon sun and the small bursts of wind that follow through. Zayn hits the breaks roughly as a college kid steps out of the blue Porsche in front of them all of a sudden, and climbs into the backseat of a Hummer in the lane across.

“What the fuck,” Zayn mutters in annoyance. 

Louis huffs, too, but in jealousy.

He never got to be a real college kid, or even a kid at all. He learned about the family business at nine and knew right away that he wanted to follow in his mother’s footsteps and one day take over. Always so ambitious, he was. Everything around him always moved so fast, and he found himself graduating from home school at fifteen with so much free time, but he only wanted to shoot guns and get head from the fit blokes he met at Liam's wild college parties. He just never slowed down, always wanting to play with the big boys. By the time college rolled around, he was already bored with the parties and the drinking and the drugs; he had excelled and kept up with his older brothers— _been there, done that_ sort of ordeal. He got sent to Harvard and he wanted to get through it as fast as possible so he could return to Chicago and the crime. Of course he had fun; he partied and fucked, but he didn’t want to waste his time with frats and beer pong tournaments.

When people say he’s Johannah Tomlinson’s son, he knows exactly what they mean. He is ready for business at all hours, looks forward to it unlike his siblings, and in a ‘laid-back’ atmosphere, he tenses up and becomes anxious. He doesn’t like to show his true colors, fuck it, his _feelings_ , to those outside his family. He likes that random people fear him, that they’ve never seen him laugh or crack a joke. It’s weak to be seen laughing or smiling, so he prefers to stay cold and guarded. There are exceptions to everything, though, and sadly _cold and guarded_ doesn’t help him pick up his next fuck. But Louis knows the affect he has on those below him; his feathery hair, sharp cheekbones, bright eyes, thin, toned body—it helps attract good looking men to him like a magnet. It really only takes a quick, crooked grin or a raise of his curved eyebrows for him to be settled and pleased for the night.

He never actually has the energy to spend more than a night with someone, especially women who babble on about nothing and expect phone calls and flowers the next day. Louis doesn’t want anything like what Liam has—he doesn’t want someone around 24/7, 365, especially not like a fucking beard, or whatever the hell Sophia is—too much fucking work. But he doesn’t want whatever Zayn is, or whatever he’s doing, either. He doesn’t believe in love, but being someone’s secret has to be hard. He believes in romance, although, really, what’s the point? He can’t be bothered with anyone sticking around long enough for that. His mother did teach him well, all the makings of a gentleman, but an effort gone wasted.

“ _Louis_!” Zayn glares at him through the rear-view mirror, beating down twice in the middle of the steering wheel, horn blaring. “Lou, listen to me.”

He’s startled out of his thoughts and glares back. “What do you want?”

“As I was saying before, Lottie just called to warn us: we’re having company for dinner,” he replies a tad too-sweetly with faux-innocent wide eyes, making Louis go on alert.

“And?” Louis asks, already bored of the conversation. Zayn looks back up front and bites his lip, while Liam snickers from the passenger seat. Louis reaches forward and smacks Liam across the back of his head, like he should’ve done in the parking lot. “Well, who is it then?”

“You might want to put on your best gown, Lou, because Stan and Chloe are coming over for dinner!” Liam blurts out with cackle.

Louis groans and sinks back into the soft leather. “What? _Why_?”

“You’re such a child sometimes,” Zayn mumbles under his breath.

Liam shrugs and turns around, facing his younger, angry brother. “The Lucases have been invited for dinner, and Ma said we have business to do, so we’re going straight to the house.” He punches Louis on his bad knee and jerks out of his reach, turning back to face the front.

The Lucases are the most insufferable crime family on the planet, and just something as simple as a dinner with them makes Louis want to strangle everything that crosses his path. Of course, Louis tends to be the only Tomlinson to feel so strongly about them, and the only one who hides in the library beforehand until he almost has to be dragged down to the dining room by the ear. Louis only knows a few things about them—one, they come from old money; two, they’re incredibly Greek and traditional; three, Louis can _not_ stand their presence; and four, they can never seem to stop trying to upstage the Tomlinson’s.

The two families have been at each other throats since what feels like the Ice Age, but they’ve been semi-cordial with each other, especially now a days, when you can’t just kill someone without having Feds following your every move. At the head of their family sits Alexei Lucas, the male equivalent to Johannah Tomlinson, the head of the Greek mob, calm, cool, and collected with fire running underneath. In fact, Louis’ sure he’s never seen the man shift his face from anything other than an eerie scowl—has the Grecian ever even smiled or gotten angry before?

The Lucases go further back than the Tomlinson’s do; Louis’ heard mumbling about the Greeks being friendly with the Nazis, and had dealings with Stalin himself. Every crime family has a bad history, a ruthless start, and the Tomlinson’s have almost as bad as a past of the Greeks, but they come out on top for many other things. More prestige, for example, more money, more fearful followers, more _power_ overall—a few of the many reasons why Louis and his family are so certainly hated, but are always greeted cordially. When the Lucases moved to Chicago in the late seventies and started approaching Tomlinson territory, well, that just didn’t sit right with the family, and at that point a young Felice Tomlinson had to remind them who was in charge. Liam’s father made it clear that Alexei Lucas and his family weren’t welcomed, and that created a small war between the two rivaling families. They tore up the streets of Chicago and both sides lost members, but it was all worth it when the Tomlinson’s came up on top, like usual.

Their relationship was tense ever since then, and it only added to the awkwardness after Felice’s death, when rumors flew around that Alexei Lucas was responsible for his death. Louis knows that’s not true, but still, you don’t just step onto someone’s property and not expect to get shot. He doesn’t deal well with trespassers. 

Louis knows who to expect a dinner: Alexei, his wife, Nabila, and their four children, Stanley, Gail, Ian, and _Chloe_. Louis doesn’t mind Gail, she’s fit as hell, even Lottie will admit it, and although Ian is ditzy and has too much pride for his own good, Louis has learned to ignore him. But Chloe and Stan give him heartburn. He made the error of letting Chloe get on her knees for him years ago, and since then the tall blonde has all but set out invitations for their wedding. Louis’ damn sure the girl belongs in the loony, with the way she clings to him the second she sees him every blue moon and talks like they’re in some sort of magical relationship. He doesn’t even _like girls_. And it only added to her craziness and possessiveness when she found out that Louis and her oldest brother, Stanley, had hooked up at a party. It would make Louis laugh at the sibling’s rivalry over him, if he didn’t actually fear for his life.

(It must have burned Chloe badly, finding out that her ‘boyfriend’ was actually more interested in her brother. Now _that_ makes Louis cackle.)

He bangs his head against the small window of the Ferrari and leans on the cool glass. The scenery changes, going from high skyscrapers and busy crowds of people, to large houses in the suburbs, to trees and rolling hills and gated mansions minutes apart. They near the house quickly and pull up to the gate, where Zayn leans over and calls out into the intercom, waving at the camera. It’s only a few seconds later that the wrought iron gates open to reveal a long pathway behind thick, tall trees.

It’s four minutes later, Louis’ counted many times before, when the Tomlinson mansion appears behind the greenery, sprawling nice and pretty. It’s massive and overwhelming, and the four-story mansion took around three years to build from the ground up. It was designed by Johannah herself, when she was pregnant with Lottie, and there’s a single room for every Tomlinson child, even the older ones like Louis who have since moved out, and an abundance of guest rooms. Louis absolutely loves it; he has his own penthouse in the middle of the city, and he owns places all around the globe, but the estate will always be his favorite. It’s _home_ , where he grew up.

The mansion sits on hundreds of acres, with a pool in the back, and is surrounded by trees; the land stretches out for miles, and it brings a small smile to Louis’ face as he thinks of all the years the boys would chase each other through the woods, playing, or shooting off guns. He had his first joint in the massive tree house they had built at eleven, and even lost his virginity in the bathroom of the pool house a couple years later to some model during a holiday party.

Of course, being the place that Johannah runs the business in, and the fact that they are in _that_ particular business, also brings an abundance of security all over the house. There are guards outside the gates, guards hiding in the trees, snipers on the rooftops, guards and attack dogs all over, on every acre of the land—there’s protection in every square inch of the house and outside of it, too. There have been multiple times where the guards were needed and the Tomlinson girls all had to run to the panic room, but nothing too severe and nothing as of late.

“She has her angry face on,” Liam mumbles as they pull up to the circular, marble driveway.

Louis snaps his head up and sees his mom standing in front of the garage, tapping her foot impatiently, undeniably looking heated. Zayn turns the car off and hands the keys over to one of the valet guys, and Louis hops out of the two-door behind Liam gracefully.

“You’re all late,” Johannah claims as she narrows her eyes at them. “What took you boys so long? I thought you were all just going to the gym.” She’s standing with an apron tied around her waist, but the five inch pumps with spiked-heels, an all too-professional skirt, and a pristine, white button up give away the fact that she isn’t cooking.

“Hi Ma.” Liam grins at her, and gives her a kiss on the cheek. “We were just at the club like we said. Can’t you tell?” He flexes his biceps obnoxiously.

Johannah scrunches up her nose and waves him away. “Yes, you smell horrid, Liam. Good God, I don’t think there is a worse-smelling boy than you anywhere. Please, all of you go clean yourselves up.” She pushes them further into the garage, in between Lottie’s black G-Wagon and the family’s Maybach, and through a door that leads them down a hallway and into the washroom. “Hurry up; we’re having company for dinner in less than an hour.”

“Who? Thought it’d be just the family tonight,” Louis says, holding his breath. He was praying that Zayn and Liam were just fucking around with him, trying to get a rise out of him earlier, but with the way they’re laughing behind him, that doesn’t seem to be the case.

“Nabila and Alexei, and their children, are coming for dinner. Thought it’d be nice, since they’re going back to Greece for a bit, and we won’t be able to see them for awhile.” Johannah raises an eyebrow in question. “There’s not a problem, is there, Louis?”

“You know how excited he is to see Chloe... and Stan.” Zayn laughs, hanging up his light jacket on the hook by the door.

“ _Dio mio_ , I wish you would keep it in your pants, Louis,” she scowls. “You and the Lucas kids will have to get over this _thing_ you have going on.”

Louis fights back the urge to rolls his eyes, nodding absentmindedly. “So, I only have an hour to prepare myself for this hell you have endured on me?”

“Yes,” Johannah snaps. “And please shave.” she pats Louis on his scruffy cheek and turns to face her other sons. With a roll of her eyes, she turns around and heads back into the kitchen, calling her over shoulder, “All of you shave! Look like cavemen, you three!”

They follow behind her, grumbling and moaning, into the kitchen, where Sophia stands by the stove and calmly mixes a red sauce with a big, black spoon. Louis has to bite back a laugh at Liam’s confusion when he realises it’s his girlfriend in the kitchen and not just another one of the help.

“Oh, yes, I invited Sophia over for dinner,” Johannah starts, going over and standing next to the tall girl. “Since she’s part of the family now, I figured she needs to come over for dinner more often. The girls only ever see her during mass, and it’s so good to have another womanly influence, like Sophia’s, around here.”

“Right,” Liam nods and hesitantly walks over to his girlfriend, before kissing her cheek. “Hi, Soph.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Louis sees Zayn walk out of the kitchen, swinging the door behind him, and then he meets his mother’s eyes. His mom’s look is stone cold, and almost singeing him, begging him to say something. It’s obvious Johannah knows something is up with Zayn and Liam, but Louis’ not going to open his mouth about anything. It’s no coincidence Sophia Smith is popping up everywhere they go, but Johannah doesn’t consider her family at all—Sophia has no idea who the Tomlinson’s really are, plus she hasn’t signed the family contract.

“Go on,” she demands, pulling Liam from his forced embrace and points to the kitchen door. “Shower, shave, and dress. We have company arriving in forty-five minutes, go.”

Liam and Louis don’t say anything as they climb the stairs up to their old rooms like toy soldiers. He grimaces as he passes his old artwork on the wall, lacking in comparison with Zayn and Fizzy’s. He cringes as he stops on the third floor, at the large family portrait that hangs proudly. It’s an old one, where the twins were just toddlers, and he was just a lanky, awkward teenager with makeup to cover up his spots, and had flat hair with a spiky fringe. His father looms behind him, Zayn, and Liam, the latter who at the time was going through a weird rebellious phase and would spend an hour straightening his hair every morning. Marcos looks menacing with narrowed blue eyes and a matching tie, but Johannah is smiling sweetly in a blue and white dress. The portrait was taken months before his father’s death, and he wonders how long she was plotting it for. If his father knew what was happening, why he didn’t stop it? Why did he hurry along and marry his brother’s widow in the first place?

Louis shrugs past it and enters his old bedroom, which looks exactly like it did before leaving for college. It’s not cluttered with posters of rappers or half-naked women like Liam’s, or artwork like Zayn’s; no, his OCD would never allow it. It’s quite minimalist, with a few bookshelves and a large stereo for his extensive collection of music, and a flat-screen that hangs from a corner. There’s a black baby grand piano sitting in front of a grand bay window with sheet music he hasn’t looked at since he was eighteen. He hurries along and showers, quickly wondering if he has time for a wank before deciding against it; his mom would most likely barge in midst-jerk off and start cursing at him in Italian for running late. That’d turn anyone off. He shaves carefully in front of the sink with a new, disposable razor, and pats on his favorite Tom Ford aftershave.

He goes into the walk-in and sends a mental thanks to Gloria, the main housekeeper at the estate, for keeping everything in order and so neat. He might not live there anymore, but it’s so nice to see all his clothes in order, just like he likes it, and his whole room neat and intact, completely untouched and dust-proof. He pulls on a pair of silk boxers and fingers through his trousers until choosing a pair of Hugo Boss black pants, pairing it with a navy blue button down, rolling up the sleeves up to the elbow. Everyone always has to look decent for dinner. Even as children, when they wanted to eat in their jeans and tees and finger-combed hair, they would only get sent back up for showers and nicely-pressed slacks and gelled-back fringes. He goes back to the bathroom in thought of fringes, and does his hair back up into a quiff like Lou taught him all those years ago.

"Uh, hi." He goes back down to the kitchen to see only Sophia and one of the cooks flitting around, the maids taking the finished dishes out into the dining room. His mom is nowhere to be seen, and from the looks of it, it seems he’s the only one of the boys to be done. “Where’s Jay?” he asks Stefano, the main chef, but Sophia answers instead.

“She’s upstairs, talking to Zayn about something,” she responds quietly. Louis only nods in thanks. “You know,” she starts again after Louis goes to the sub-zero fridge and pulls out a Corona. “You could help out here.”

“Nah, I don’t cook.”

“He’ll burn down the kitchen if he tries,” Johannah calls out from behind him, placing a steady hand on his back. “One time, he tried making enchiladas, but instead of making a sauce, he just went out and bought spaghetti sauce.”

Louis rolls his eyes fondly. “I was eight,” he mumbles.

“It’s okay, _bambino_ ; we all can’t be Martha Stewart.”

“You could just ask, you know, Lou,” Sophia says with an easy smile. She pulls out a covered pot from the oven and smiles at Stefano when he takes the heavy weight from her and sets it on the island. “I could like, give you lessons and such. It could be fun!”

Louis doesn’t know if he wants to pretend to think it over for how hard she’s trying, or just blow her off directly for how _hard_ she’s trying. He knows she has no future in this family, looks like she scares easily, and it can’t be too long before Zayn freaks out and demands Liam to get rid of her. Soon enough, there’ll be a new Sophia sitting with the girls during mass. After all, Sophia was the new Danielle.

“I’ve tried, it’s just not for me.” He shrugs easily, taking a gulp of his beer. And it’s true, he’s tried, but cooking is just one of the few things he’s not good at. There’s a reason why his sub-zero at the penthouse is basically clean of things that aren’t frozen, liquids, or takeout leftovers.

“You could always just find someone that’ll cook for you, Louis,” his mom says smoothly. “Find someone that _can_ teach you,” she says with a soft smile on her face.

“Oh, yeah,” Louis agrees. He turns to Stefano, “Do you know any chefs who could stop by my place throughout the week to cook for me?”

“Not like that!” Johannah claims, waving a wooden spoon at him. She scoffs at Stefano. “Look, you’re about to be twenty-five in a few months, that’s still young—Liam’s father and I married at twenty-one, but all I’m saying is... Maybe it’s time for you to find _someone_ to settle down with, alright?”

A woman, she means. _Someone_ who’s classy and can cook and wants a big family, _someone_ who will stand by his side when he finally takes over the family business, and _someone_ who can reproduce Tomlinson offspring, because a man is just out of the question. Because what _Louis_ wants, which is to fuck whoever the hell he wants and be free in the morning, is unacceptable. And of course, Louis marrying a _man_ and settling down with _him_ and having _him_ reproduce? An abhorrence.

 “I want grandkids, Louis. I’m not going to be the boss of the company forever, you know, and I need grandbabies to spoil.” Johannah points her spoon at him again and narrows her eyes.  It’s not for discussion then. Louis just nudges his drink towards Sophia.

“ _No_ , no thank you!” she exclaims. “Liam and I... Li and I have only been dating for a little more than a year, and besides, he hasn’t even popped the question. Jay, you know my family—my daddy would flip out of I had a baby out of wedlock.”

Louis suppresses a shudder on all the baby talk. Children? No, thank you, indeed. He hates them, and his mother knows it. Everyone knows Johanna’s safest bet for grandchildren is if Liam or Zayn accidentally knock someone up, and with everything that’s going on in _their_ secret relationship, it seems doubtful, and Louis doesn’t even know if Zayn or Liam are carriers. Louis isn’t—he had himself checked the moment he came to terms with his homosexuality, although there hasn’t been much bottoming in his life, anyway.

There’s always Lottie. 

“Someone in this family is going to get pregnant, God willing,” Johannah mumbles, and crosses herself quickly.

Louis rolls his eyes at his mother’s here-nor-there religious antics. “There’s always Lottie,” he says. He doesn’t even want to think about that actually, knowing that any boy who comes _that_ close to his sister, any of them, is a dead man.

“Louis William, don’t even speak of such things!” Jay cries.

“What’s going on?” Dan asks, coming into the kitchen and heading straight towards Johannah. The moment she opens her mouth, he uses it to slip his tongue in, forgetting about the rest of the innocent bystanders.

Louis makes a gagging noise and is happy when they pull away. "Don't you have ten unoccupied bedrooms in this house for that?"

“Don’t act like such a child, Louis.” His step-father scolds.“Your mother and I are married, and she’s a beautiful, young woman—you’re lucky you don’t live in this house anymore, surely you wouldn’t get a wink of sleep. In fact, that counter you’re happily drinking your beer on? We’ve made love there.”

“Oh, _God_ ,” Louis groans, fighting the real urge to gag. “That’s disgusting! There are children living in this house—innocent eyes and ears and minds!”

Liam enters then with a confused face. “What’s disgusting?”

“Ma and Dan fucking everywhere,” Louis replies with raised eyebrows, taking in Liam’s outfit. He’s wearing dark skinny jeans that sag at the ass, showing off his black Calvin Klein’s, and a huge Adidas zip-up on top of a white tank top. There’s even a red bandana hanging from his low, back pocket. He’s only missing the snapback that he knows Johannah would flip off in an instant.

“Really, Liam.” Johannah clicks her tongue in discontent. “We’re having dinner, not going to a damn Jay-Z concert. Please go upstairs and change. I promise you had better fashion sense at eighteen, with those plaid shirts and khakis, than you do now at twenty-six.”

Sophia doesn’t say anything, but washes her hands in the sink and quickly dries them on a dishtowel, before pulling Liam out of the kitchen by the arm, almost running into Lottie.

“Where’re Kayne and Kim headed off to?” she asks, sitting down next to Louis at the counter, eyes glued to her phone.

“Her ass isn’t big enough to be Kim, though,” Louis says absentmindedly. “More like Bieber and Selena, don’t you think?”

“I dunno,” Lottie shrugs, uninterested. “She has those huge Khloe lips.”

The next fifteen minutes fly by as Johannah and Stefano, along with Zayn who can cook a bit, hurry around the kitchen while the help set the table for twenty people and put out all the dishes, ready to serve. Liam and Sophia come down later, too, with suspiciously flushed faces and new outfits. The twins and Fizzy come down at the last minute, two seconds before the bell rings.

Chloe and Stan Lucas only bring out the worst in Louis Tomlinson. _The Greeks are coming, the Greeks are coming_ , he sings in his mind.

Louis stuffs his favorite glock into his belt and knows that Zayn and Liam have done the same. Hell, he wouldn’t be surprised if Lottie had her own impressive gun somewhere on her. Precautions, always precautions. He was never a boy scout, unlike his oldest brother, but _Always be prepared_ is one hell of a motto, one that he lives by. These dinners never tend to turn into a war, but business is always brought up, and Alexei Lucas isn’t one to show much respect towards women who are leaders, and that tends to piss of all the Tomlinson’s and cause tension. But with innocent, oblivious Sophia sitting next to Liam, Louis doubts Johannah will bring up anything, and if one of the Lucases does, everyone’s sure to lead that topic astray. The doorbell rings again and they all shuffle quietly into the sitting room, listening carefully as sweet, old Gloria greets the small clan at the door and brings them inside.

He hears Chloe before he even sees her, squealing to her sister about seeing him again. Gail shushes her, and Lottie turns to Louis, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively. He can’t recall how the topic came up one night, maybe after a few bottles of wine between them, but he finds it a bit off that he and his little sister both agree that Gail Lucas is extremely good-looking. Now, Louis’ not straight, he prefers dick over anything, but he has eyes after all, and Lottie—well, he doesn’t know what’s going on there, or why there are pictures of her kissing all of her girl friends on the mouth on the internet, but maybe he should ask about that, later. 

They come into the sitting room seconds later, all tall and blonde, with cocky white grins and sharp hazel eyes. Ian has a stony look on his face, and his gun is clearly shown from the way he pushes his blazer back, and that’s unacceptable—not his house, not his rules, and the Tomlinson’s stand a little straighter and their faces plague with indifference to let it be shown. Ian, Gail, and their father, Alexei, are all taller than Louis, stand wider, but he just can’t see them as a challenge. He has never seen them as one, never has been intimated by their scowls. Stanley, however, is around Louis’ height, with thick bones and a baby face—a twink, by all means, even at twenty-five. You can’t tell by the way he holds himself, steady and reassured, but when he opens up his mouth the whole illusion is shattered.

“Lou _is_ ,” Chloe screeches. She runs towards him and latches on tightly, pressing her body against his, settling her thigh against his groin. “I’ve missed you so _, so_ much.” Her arms tighten around his neck and he holds himself back from pushing her off harshly. He would hate to start the night off violently, especially in front of his sisters. Chloe pulls back and smiles at him. She looks so much like Stan, only blonde, that it’s a bit scary. He’s sure that if she took off her pounds of makeup and cut her hair, she would turn into Stan, with only a vagina and tits to show them apart. When he looks back up, he sees Stan glaring daggers into his sister’s back. Louis nods at him politely, and turns to go back into the dining room where the rest of his family and the Lucases are waiting. Chloe grabs a hold of his arms and tries to pull him back, but he’s much stronger than her and ends up dragging her towards the dining area.

“I’m not going to Greece with my parents, just them and Gail and Ian, so we should hang out a lot more now that I’ll be in the city!” she loops her arm around Louis’ and tries to dig her heels in the marble floors to stop them from reaching the room. “You’re still living in the penthouse, right? I’ll go visit you.”

He makes a mental note to print off photographs of the girl and hand one out to each worker in his building, making sure she gets nowhere near the lobby. He groans and knows the Gods are working against him when they finally get into the dining room and spots only two open chairs, both in between Stan and Ian. He goes and sits next to Stan, who sometimes can make good conversation, unlike the other, crazier Lucas brother.

Dinner is great and rowdy in a good way, and the topics that flow have no one reaching for their weapons. The Greeks notice Sophia quickly, realize she knows nothing about the crime families, and Gail takes it upon herself to mess with the shy girl. Alexei tells stories on both Felice and Marcos Tomlinson, which has everyone laughing and in high spirits. The Tomlinson girls love hearing about their late uncle and father. All in all, dinner is delicious and the wine comes from great-grandfather De Rossi’s vineyard in Tuscany, leaving the of-age pink-cheeked. 

There’s an enormous raspberry cheesecake being passed around for dessert. One of the help serves him a piece on the fine china and Louis thanks her, before cutting up a small bite and plopping it into his mouth. He’s just about to swallow, when a small hand snakes its way onto his lap and gropes at his soft dick hidden underneath his slacks. The cheesecake gets stuck in his throat and he blindly reaches for his wine goblet to swallow it down, face flushed.

“You alright there, Lou?” Zayn asks across the table with raised eyebrows and a small smirk.

Louis can only nod frantically as Chloe runs her long fingernails up and down his covered length and the whole table stops what they’re doing and turns to stare at him. “’M fine, thank you,” he squeaks. Zayn nods, unconvinced, and everyone returns back to their conversations. Before he can stop her, Stan is reaching over Louis’ lap and slapping his sister’s hand away.  He shoots a smirk at Louis, pulls the long, heavy table cloth over his lap, and slowly pulls down the zipper to his slacks. Besides him, Chloe pouts and huffs but doesn’t move her hand away from his thigh. Stan gets Louis’ hardening dick out of his pants and through the hole of his boxers, jerking him slowly, the dry friction of his hands makes Louis want to cry, hurting so sweetly.

Stan tightens his hold on him, his thumb spreading the small bead of pre-come at his slit around gently. Louis holds his breath when Stan lets go and brings his wine goblet down from the table and quietly pours it over his fingers and palm, rich red droplets splattering on the gold Parisian rug underneath, drenching his fist, before going back to wetly jerk at Louis’ hardened dick. Chloe can only watch in jealously and pet at his thighs.

Louis leans back in his chair, shifting his bum around to get comfortable. The son of his enemy is calmly jacking him off underneath the dining table, while their families sit around eating and chatting about such things like polar ice caps melting and the Academy Awards.  He’s seconds away from coming white hot in Stan’s hand, his balls tightening and his stomach clenching, but first he has to have another bite of that cheesecake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Until next time


	3. Blood and Beauty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Not mine. Not my plot, not my characters, nothing.

* * *

 

_"Rare is the union of beauty and purity." - Juvenal_

 

 

Louis watches through red-rimmed eyes as the young man stretches his lean body and shifts his bare ass around, finding a comfortable position between Louis’ laptop and his few manila folders, and lies down on his back, looking up with awaiting, hooded eyes. Louis can only roll his own baby blues; they’re not in a fucking porno, the man doesn’t have to look at him with such a phony, sultry gaze— it’s uncomfortable to be at the receiving end of that look.

Louis opens up the little clear baggy and shakes the white powder onto the man’s abs. It’s been hours and hours of straight pleasure, non-stop sex and heat, that Louis almost had a small fright when he felt his dick was going to fall off, yet he still doesn’t know the man’s name. He probably has one, Louis laughs to himself, all human beings have a name, but for now his name is just Big Dick. The name fits the man perfectly, with a semi-hard cock slapped against his thigh, and something stirs in Louis’ stomach, but first thing’s first: time for a little snack.

Louis grabs the razor-blade sitting plainly on top of the large, oak desk and carefully cuts two lines of coke on Big Dick’s sculpted abdomen, shrugging his shoulders with a bored, unapologetic expression when he presses down a tiny bit too hard and a few droplets of blood squeeze out, the man hissing and turning to him with narrowed eyes. What’s a little blood now and then? If only Big Dick could see how much bloodshed Louis could cause with just a measly razor, hell he would  _run_  for the hills with his large, tan cock flapping alongside him.

He turns and yanks one of the hundred dollar bills lying carelessly on the desk, below Big Dick’s unimpressive ass, and rolls it into a tight cylinder. Louis leans down and covers up one nostril with a finger, inhaling quickly, following the white path with conviction like Dorothy. His nose twitches and he rubs at it, before leaning back down to Big Dick’s chiseled abs, hastily inhaling the second line of snow.

“Louis,” the man whines, “Can we go again? I’m ready for it.” He sits up and spreads his legs, letting Louis slot in between them, bare cock rubbing against his thighs. “Please, Louis.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Louis orders. “I didn’t bring you up here to talk.” He can feel euphoria start curling itself into his veins, rushing up and down his awoken system. The Tomlinson’s deal many drugs, import and export all around the world, and Louis doesn’t think it’s smart to not at least sample their own merchandise. Gotta stand behind what you’re selling, he believes.

Excuses, excuses.  

The quick, fast-beat music floats up to them from downstairs and the cocaine nirvana makes his whole body tremble to the beat, insides thumping along to the bass. From the third floor of  _Fiction_ , Liam’s new, exclusive club, Louis can see everything that happens on floors below through tinted windows. It’s  _Glow_  night, one of their famous nights where everyone dresses up in bright colors and splatters on glow-in-the-dark body paint, and the black lights make it seem like you’re in a different alternative universe—it’s old-fashioned, but easily one of the most packed nights, too. The whole club is overflowing with hot boys in tight clothing with flushing skin and blown pupils, and it’s almost like paradise to Louis Tomlinson.

Louis shuffles towards the large window that runs horizontally against his office wall and looks down with a grin, ignoring the way Big Dick huffs and closes his legs. The dance floor is just flashes of color and grinding bodies, and he knows it’s probably not him, but Louis swears he sees Zayn a couple times, bouncing around and in between big-breasted blondes in tiny dresses and tall, built men in tight shirts. He thinks he sees him on the first floor dance area grinding against a blue-haired girl to Beyoncé and on the second story balcony, pressed up against a lanky brunet, but he’s not too sure.

He knows his brother is on some kind of self-indulging hunt for a filthy, good-looking girl or boy to hook up with and perhaps,  _maybe_ , bring back to Johannah Tomlinson, and it’s all just fucking strange. Ever since Zayn declared he was ready to start looking for  _someone_  and settle down during family dinner a few nights ago, it’s all the man can focus on. He makes diagrams and charts and takes online quizzes on what kind of  _someone_  would be right for him; it’s becoming more of an obsession. Louis thinks it’s a complete waste of time and energy, and he gets headaches whenever Zayn starts comparing people to Liam goddamned Tomlinson.

Louis doesn’t care, not really, and he doesn’t know if they’re broken up or what the hell is going on, but he can’t decide what is more annoying: Liam and Zayn tiptoeing around each other and being emos, or Zayn’s new obsession with fucking everyone he meets and then later on doing a pro and con chart, comparing them to Liam. It’s obvious Zayn isn’t over his lover, not one bit, and Louis doesn’t know if he’s looking for someone new for his own sake or in spite of Liam.  It probably didn’t help that his oldest brother had caught on quickly and decided to bring Sophia everywhere he went, latched onto her body like a baby koala.

Jealous idiots, honestly; they give Louis such massive headaches.

He turns back around to the man sitting restlessly on the desk with a smirk. He should’ve let him go  _hours_  ago and brought back someone new, but his dick was just too fantastic to let go of. Louis found him downstairs with a waiter uniform on, and he thinks maybe he’s one of the boys Liam hired to keep the international business men happy for a few hours. He can’t help but feel pity for those men, having to fly out of their own cities and countries to escape their nagging wives and children, just for a few hours with a nice-looking man like Big Dick. He feels even more shame for himself, knowing that sooner or later, he’ll be doing the exact same thing.

Some of the men down on the dance floor, grinding their crotches against the padded asses of barely-dressed women, sweating through designer suits, are some of Tomlinson’s most important business associates. All three of the Tomlinson men have offices in the higher parts of Liam’s  _Fiction_ , away from curious eyes, and they deal a lot of business here, with those same shady men sweating profusely below. Louis hardly ever comes in, but popped by to check on an order of premium coke sent in from Colombia. 

He hadn’t even made it to the elevator when he saw Big Dick and his gray eyes, and suddenly Louis had room in his schedule for a few fucks and even more lines of class A blow. It had only taken a simple arch of his eyebrows, and the waiter was like a chocolate in his back pocket—melted, sticky, and clinging to his ass. They had to stop an hour back, after Big Dick passed out on his dick after coming, which. Nice for his ego, but kind of a boner-killer, if you ask Louis.

“Are you ready, Louis?” Big Dick asks, looking up at the mobster with a smirk. He gives his palm a few kitten licks, never taking his eyes away from Louis, and reaches below to grab his length. He pumps it slowly, watching.

“Why don’t you go ahead,” Louis orders and reaches into a drawer, pulling out a Zippo lighter and a joint. He holds it with his lips and lights up, body sagging in relief as the smoke is sucked down into his chest and enters his body, curling around his surely-black lungs. He watches with hooded eyes and a twitching dick in his boxers, as the blond boy pumps himself at a steady rhythm, Louis’ name falling out of his lips in short breaths.

The high from the cocaine is steady now, still edging into nirvana, but with a hold on reality, and the weed doesn’t do much but give his brain a bit of a fog. Nothing he can’t handle, nothing that will let him lose control of anything, always alert with a sharp mind. His body trembles as he inhales and watches Big Dick squirm with pleasure, but he’s as coherent as he was when he first entered  _Fiction_. He never lets himself get too far away, bad things can happen when one’s body is down on the ground but their head is elevated with pleasure—it’s not smart, and Louis is nothing if not a genius.

Working in the field that he works in, it’s best to know your limits. You should always know when to stop before you cross the line, the line that can get you in major trouble, or leave you for dead. Louis knows where to cut himself off, and that’s something Liam and him don’t share—Liam’s not one for too many restrictions and it’s gotten him in a lot of trouble before; Johannah sent him to rehab for his drinking problem in his early twenties, and almost exiled him from the organization. Louis has always been aware since then—running the family business is all he has.

Big Dick thumbs at his slit as pre-come squirts out, “Is this good for you?”

Louis has to hold back a groan in annoyance, and goddamn, why must he talk so much? Silence is sexy, silence is  _key_. He can tell the boy is getting close as his breath quickens and so does his pace, jerking his hand up and then with more force, tugging hard. He clips his own hand underneath his silk boxers and sighs as he wraps a hand around his hardness, stroking to match his pace, silently urging into the dry friction.

Then there’s shouting in the hallway, and his hand jerks in alert. No one has access to the last floor of the building except for his brothers and their security. He rolls his eyes, frustrated in more ways than one, and puts out the jay in his other hand, dropping it into a crystal ashtray. He retracts his hand from his cock and frowns as it bounces back to point out in his red boxers.

“C’mon, it’s time for you to leave,” Louis picks up the small pile of clothes by the window and throws it at the tall boy, laughing at his shocked expression.

“Wait,  _why_ ,” he pleads, stumbling off the desk.  “Can we at least finis—“

“No,” Louis snaps. “Don’t ask questions; just leave like a good, little boy.”

“Louis!” Zayn’s voice calls from out in the hallway.

Big Dick hastily throws a leg into a pant hole and then the other and frowns, looking up at Louis. “When can I see you again? You’ll come look for me, right?”

Louis laughs loudly at that, crinkles forming by his eyes. Is this guy serious? “If everything goes my way, which it normally does, I’ll never see you again.” He crosses the room in easy strides, bare feet padding against the exotic wood floors. “You’ll never see me again, in fact, I can promise you’ll be fired tomorrow morning.” He yanks the door open and waves an arm for him to leave.

Big Dick gasps and narrows his gray eyes at the shorter man, jerking his arms into his button down. “You can’t do that! I just got this job, please.”

Louis shrugs and trails his eyes down Big Dick’s chest peeking out through the unbuttoned white shirt. He’s so hot, too bad he can’t keep his mouth shut for more than a minute. “Now, I don’t know—how well of a job were you really doing if you spent the whole night bouncing on your boss’ brother’s dick?”

The boy buttons up a few of the buttons on shirt with clammy fingers and glares. “I will fucking sue you for everything you own. I will sue for sexual harassment; say it was against my will!”

“For fuck’s sake,” Zayn mumbles in the doorway with rosy cheeks and wide eyes. “What the fuck did you do, Lou? I liked him.” He moves out of the way as Big Dick pushes his way through the door.

“I liked him, too,” Louis laughs lightly. “Leave!” He shouts at the nameless boy just standing underneath the doorway.

Big Dick huffs and stomps out, yelling over his shoulder, “You will hear from my lawyer!”

“Why are you always getting in trouble, Louis?” Zayn wonders out loud, stepping into the room. He scrunches his nose up, surveying the room. “Smells like sex in here. I swear, you’re the only person I know who can fuck all day long and do coke without getting anything messy. How do you do it?”

Nothing in the room is out of order, everything in its place for Louis’ sake. He would lose his mind if anything had gotten dirty while he was there. Besides the crumpled hundred dollar bills on his desk, everything is in perfect order. His folders are stacked in alphabetical order and floor is shiny and sparkly, and besides his dress shirt carefully thrown over his leather chair and the cocaine residue on a mirror on his desk, it is all good. No one would have a clue on what he was doing for the last few hours in his office if it wasn’t for the reek of sex and weed that lingers in the air, but there’s  _Febreeze_  for that.

Louis walks into the en-suite bathroom and pulls out an air freshener from below the sink, spraying freely into his office, ignoring his brother’s overdramatic coughs. He walks back to the bathroom and rinses his hands thoroughly. Who knows what Big Dick had on him?

“So?” He goes around his desk and plucks his dress shirt from the chair. “What was so important that you had to ruin my fun? I was busy.”

Zayn cocks an eyebrow and throws a pointed look at Louis’ still prominent, but quickly softening erection in his boxers. “I can see that. My apologies.”

“Fuck off.” Louis folds his shirt on the desk and goes to the closet to pick out a fresh, dark blue t-shirt. He hesitates, debating whether or not to put it on, before walking over to his desk and laying it carefully across his closed laptop. “I still have to weigh in the coke sent in from Colombia. It’s supposed to be just a small amount to test, only five kilos, but you know how stingy they are.” He nods behind him, at a framed family portrait.

It takes Zayn a few seconds, but then he’s laughing and shaking his head in amusement, amber eyes wide and dilated. “Really, Lou? You have a hidden vault behind our family picture? You’re such a cliché.”

“Simple, but effective, I say. Why are you here?”

Zayn’s face instantly pales. “We have a slight situation.” Louis makes an exasperated face and he continues. “Right, so I was talking to this really handsome guy downstairs, real cute, looks kinda like a frog, but—“

“A frog,” Louis interrupts. “Frogs aren’t  _handsome_ , Z, they’re slimy and nasty and carry bacteria. Liam really fucked you up, didn’t he?”

His brother just rolls his eyes and gives him the finger, continuing. “And we were having a real nice chat, like he was definitely into me, and then—well,  _and then_  he kinda tripped and hit his head against a table, and passed out.”

“And…This is a situation why, exactly?”

“What do I do with him,” Zayn slurs slowly and unsure. “Should I try and wake him up or something?”

“What do you do with him?” Louis repeats incredulously. “He’s still passed out?” Zayn just nods. “Where is he?” Zayn blinks slowly up at him and purses his lips. “You didn’t just leave—you just  _left_  him on the floor right there? You left him passed out, a man you clearly find attractive, in a sea full of heavily medicated drunks?”

“Uh, yes, but—“

“Go!” Louis snaps and points to the door. “Are you a fucking idiot, Zayn? Go downstairs and bring him up here, have Preston or someone carry him up here, otherwise chances are you’ll drop the guy on his head, give him more brain damage. Don’t make a scandal out of it, it’s the last thing we need.”

Zayn only stands up half-begrudgingly. Louis knows the older man isn’t one to take orders like that lightly; when it comes to being bossed around, he absolutely hates it and will usually only take commands from Johannah. Louis will love seeing how much Zayn narrows his eyes and grunts and broods in the near future, when he’s the boss of everyone and not taking Louis’ orders just simply isn’t an option. Louis just can’t wait; it’s going to be a blast.

“Oh, and bring Liam in here, too,” Louis adds after a moment, when Zayn is just about to set an unsteady foot out from underneath the doorway. As he waits for his brothers and the guy—the latter whom he fully hopes is in okay conditions and won’t make a big scandal—he cleans up the little mess made in the office. He makes himself busy by tidying up the cocaine residue on the mirror, throwing it in the bin and placing the mirror in a drawer. He restacks his folders and throws his dirty shirt in the closet. He’s never been a man of patience.

He’s not worried about Big Dick and his lawyer, highly doubt he can afford one in the first place, but if he can, it shouldn’t be much of an issue. The Tomlinson boys get that a lot, considering their high-profile status; their family name is known around the country, is overused in Chicago, and he knows a simple phone call can—and  _has—_ clear any, ahem, misunderstandings right up with no trouble. He’s been threatened before by many petty men and women before, it’s nothing new, and he finds it hard to believe that Big Dick will be the last one.

The courts wouldn’t take him seriously, another one to add to the list of people. Louis hadn’t forced himself on the boy, he would never do such a sick thing, so, clearly, Big Dick just wasn’t doing his job—no worries, easy come, easy go. It’s just the Tomlinson charm, what is a young man like Louis to do when an opportunity opens itself?

Louis’ more worried about the  _slight situation_  that Zayn has gotten in. While passing out at a club is not a big deal, passing out at a club when Zayn Tomlinson is included, is. Liam’s the biggest party boy of them three and the media knows it, but the media is also picking up on how much Zayn has been going out lately, how he stumbles home with a pretty girl or boy attached to him. They own a big portion of the city, but they still have enemies who go out at all lengths to bring them down, make them look bad, or just inconvenience them. Louis doesn’t want to think about the scandal it would cause when a trashy magazine twists things around and claims that Zayn had drugged the guy or something, but he unquestionably doesn’t need another scolding from his mother; can’t fuck this up again.

“What the hell is going on?” is the first thing that Liam says as he bursts through the door with rosy cheeks and messy hair. “I was dancing with Sophia, and then Zayn comes up all mad, with his cu—with his brooding face and drags me away. What did you do, Louis?” He takes a quick look at his half-undressed state and frowns, “Who did you fuck over now?”

Louis scoffs and crosses his arms over his chest. “I did  _nothing_ , thank you very much,” he says defensively. “I’m innocent, as hard as it is to believe. Zayn fucked up.”

“Oh,” Liam quiets down and sways on his feet. Louis finds the disbelieving look on his face disgusting;  _of course_  Liam would never believe anything wrong of his precious, dear Zayn, even if he has seen with his own eyes how badly their ‘break-up’ has affected him. “What did he do?”

“Not really sure, actually, something about some guy he was hooking up with, passed out from the pleasure, I think. That’s what Zayn said, anyway.” Louis watches as the lies affect his oldest brother, holding back a grin. Fools! Who do they think they’re duping, with this bullshit ‘break-up’? It’s only doing more harm than good, to both of them. “Probably just one of Zaynie’s new toys, right?”

Liam nods unsurely, abnormally quiet considering the way he barged in. “Then he needs to—why am I here? Can’t he handle it himself?”

“We need to deal with this, make sure it doesn’t leak or anything. This can easily get manipulated, especially if he wakes up and starts freaking out.”

Liam only nods in response, muttering under his breath, but Louis lets it go and scrolls down his phone, ignoring Lottie’s obnoxious texts about getting someone fired at the nail salon and his step-dad’s request at taking the girls out for the night so his mom and him can have ‘alone time’. Hell no. He’s about to reply with a big  _fuck no_ , when Zayn and a massive bodyguard come bursting in like Liam had earlier.

The guard is holding a limp, lanky man—boy? Man-boy?—bridal style, his face tucked into the large bodyguard’s chest. Louis clears his desk quickly and watches with a held breath as he lays him down on the desk, watching with slight amusement as his feet bobble and hang on the edge of the particularly long desk. He feels something odd in his stomach, like a small fluttering, when his eyes travel from the long, lean miles of leg to the small sliver of milky skin where his white scoop neck rises up at his waistband to his heart-shaped face with a strong jaw and plump, red lips.

He looks young, sporting a halo of loose curls that graze his shoulders and cover his rosy cheeks, but the club has a strict twenty-one and up policy—something else that they can’t have held up over their heads; Liam Tomlinson’s club letting in minors? No, thanks—so Louis figures he has to be that age. He finds himself resisting the urge to reach out and stroke the boy’s cheekbones, just to see if the skin is as soft as it looks.  _So fucking bizarre_.

“Thank you, Preston,” Zayn nods to the bodyguard. “You can leave now.”

“Who is he?” He has to know.

“His name is Harry,” Zayn informs them with a smug grin. “Nice, huh?” He turns towards Louis, completely ignoring the other boy in the room glaring daggers at him.

“What the fuck did you do?” Liam steps closer and arches an eyebrow at the sleeping boy, criticizing him silently. “You kill him?”

“You can tell he’s breathing,” Zayn doesn’t take his eyes off Harry. “Don’t be a dumbass, Liam.” He turns back to Louis with wide, tired eyes, “Should we check his head?”

“His  _head_?” Liam questions incredulously, and Louis chokes back the laughter bubbling in his throat, remembering the shit he told Liam about Harry passing out from the pleasure; Liam must have come up with his own conclusions.

Zayn turns and narrows his eyes at his brother, “Yes, his  _head_. God,  _Lou_ , you should’ve heard—so loud, just this big—“

“Should we call Ma?” Liam interrupts, jaw locked. “Call the hospital, to, uh, fix his little problem?”

Louis shakes his head and looks back down at Harry, ignoring the fluttering in his stomach. Maybe the cocaine was laced with something, or he’s hungry. When was the last time he had eaten? “Let’s just try to wake him up, get him some water.” He stares and stares, at the boy’s long legs, at his dark lips, at the exposed skin of his tummy littered with eloquent tattoos, at his strong jaw—and that’s when he sees it. There’s a small gash, a small cut on the side of his face by his left eyebrow, and the overwhelming urge to clean it hits him like a train, but he knows he shouldn’t, can’t.

Harry seems fresh, overall, some rare form of purity, and Louis doesn’t want to taint that with all the blood staining his hands. Unlike the man sprawled across his desk not even fifteen minutes ago, there’s something real and unsoiled about Harry, and Louis thinks he might be losing his mind. There is an innocent-like quality about this boy, something that makes Louis uncomfortable, almost reminds him of his twin sisters.                

 _What the fuck_?

He has to shake himself from his thoughts, needs to disconnect his brain for a few moments, breathe the air that isn’t stilled by Harry’s lavender scent. He mostly wants to call the Colombians and demand to know what the hell they laced in their cocaine, what they mixed in, complain about how the contract clearly states  _pure_. He takes a couple steps back until he’s across the room, leaning against a file cabinet with his hands locked together.       

“I think he’s waking up,” Liam informs them, shaking Harry’s shoulder softly. He, too, notices the small gash on his temple and orders Zayn to get something to clean him up with, and the latter doesn’t even blink before running to the bathroom. It was all silent besides Harry’s breathing and water running, and seconds later Zayn starts wiping at the blood gently with a wet hand towel.

Harry starts to stir, grumbles something incoherent, and Louis suddenly feels ashamed, wishing that he had at least disinfected the desk before laying the long-legged boy on it. Harry’s eyes remain closed, but he starts moving around more when Zayn whispers in his ear.

“Why don’t you try and sit him up?” Louis suggests, staying where he is, watching in satisfaction when Zayn steps back away from Harry.

Liam props him up, holding him steady. Louis notices how Harry’s feet touch the floor confidently—he has sat many times in that very same spot as the boy, but his feet are always inches away. Interesting. “I’ll do it,” he calls out, surprising everyone in the room, when Zayn goes to pick up the wet towel again. He ignores his brother’s looks, and yanks the towel from his grip with a daring face.

“Alright then, Lou,” Zayn raises his eyebrows. “I think he came with someone, some girl, I’ll go find her.”

Louis takes Zayn’s position by Harry, and he tries to calm his trembling hands, glaring at them until they settle down only a little, but the shake of his hand is still visible as he lifts it up to clean at Harry’s face. It is mostly clean by the cut, but some blood dripped down his temple and even stained his shirt. Moving a few strands of his curls and tucking them behind his ear, he notes the small piercing, a white, plastic flower. It’s cute.

Wait,  _cute_? Louis Tomlinson is three hundred percent fucking sure he has never even thought, much less said, the word  _cute_  since he was nine and had a crush on one of Liam’s older football friends. No, there’s no way.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Louis?” Liam snaps him out of his melodramatic thoughts.

“No, nothing,” Louis lies, to both his brother (again) and himself. “Probably just the coke, ‘m sure of it—took too much.” He concentrates on wiping off dry blood from Harry’s face in silence. The cut itself isn’t bad, nothing to deep enough for stitches; Louis has had his share of cuts and scrapes, and surely it’ll only leave a slight scar. When all the blood is gone and all that’s left is milky white skin, Louis retrieves a bandage from his desk and covers the wound.

“All patched up,” Louis says after a few moments. He’s struggling to take his hand away from Harry’s tight, black skinny jean-clad knee, but he manages, missing the warmth that had settled nicely underneath his hand. “Just a little bump, nothing to worry about, maybe just a slight concussion.”

Harry grumbles and when he sways in his spot, Louis reaches out instinctively and holds him steady, pressing his fingers into the boy’s biceps. He wants to press his fingers hard enough into Harry’s skin, bring a little color to the big, rustic ship tattooed there. He wants to leave  _Fiction_  knowing that Harry will have a little bit of Louis, even for just a few days until the mauve marks turn yellow and eventually fade into creamy white skin, and it’s so fucking weird.

“A concussion?” Liam asks behind him, and oh, yeah,  _Liam_  is still here. “Is that something  _we_  need to worry about?”

 “He should probably check out a doctor soon, get a scan just to make sure. But he looks fine, maybe just a bit scared. We’ll be fine.”

Louis steps away from the incoherent boy with the long curls and makes his way to the attached bathroom, shutting the door behind him. He throws the bloody rag on the white marble sink, staining it crimson and tries to stop his trembling hands.  _What is wrong with me_ , he wonders as he tries to fight his body for control. He stands there, staring at his gauntly expression in the mirror, at his blown-out pupils, at his dull skin—he’s a mess.

“What the hell did I take?” he asks himself before shaking his head and walking out to his office.

When he steps back into the room and takes another step in Harry’s direction, the door bursts open and like a tornado, a thin girl comes whirling in with panic. It is a flash of long blonde hair and glaring blue eyes, and suddenly Louis’ being attacked, as the girl throws herself on top of him and he only has a few second’s notice but he reacts just in time to hold her back. She’s struggling against his strength, but refuses to crumple or back away, lunging long, black nails at him.

“Harry! Run,” she screeches. “I got him, save yourself!”

“What the fuck is this thing,” Louis asks incredulously, still keeping her off of his person.

She stumbles backwards in her tall heels and makes her way over to Harry, still slumped on the desk. “Harry?” she shakes him, goes as far as to slap him in the face, leaving a red mark on his cheek, and causing Louis’ blood to boil. She turns to them with narrowed eyes, “What did you do to him? He—he was such a good shopping friend, what am I supposed to do now?  _Harry_!” She stomps her way over to Zayn and Louis watches in laughter as his neck jerks back as the girls slaps him, too, sound echoing throughout the room.

“I saw you with him!” She points accusingly and Zayn shrinks back at her glare. Her dark red lips twist and she thumps him hard on the chest, but the tan man probably didn’t even feel it. “Did you put something in his drink? Are you—oh,  _god_ , are you going to like, gangbang him?”

From across the room, Liam snorts and crosses his arms over his chest, rolling his eyes towards the ceiling in annoyance. “Can you stop talking for just one second? You’ve got no chill, whatsoever. We’re trying to wake him up, and we’ll more than happy to drive him to Northwestern Memorial if you’d like. I’m Liam Tomlin—“

The girl glares up at him through thick, dark lashes, “I know  _exactly_  who you are. All of you.”

Louis highly doubts she knows  _exactly_ , but that’s beside the point. He watches with the same weird feeling deep in the pit of his stomach as the blonde girl caresses Harry’s cheek and—and are they like, an item or something? Are they in another one of those stupid relationships that promise  _forever_  and  _always_? And if they are, then why was Zayn chatting him up, why was Harry allowing it? Because from how his brother said it, it seemed like Harry didn’t have any trouble with Zayn hitting on him, and was even into him, too.

“I’m so calling the police,” she states, slapping Harry’s red cheeks gingerly and reaching for her phone in her clutch with one hand. “You killed him! All of you are murderers!”

Harry moans with closed eyes, “Perrie, ‘m fine,” he lets out in a deep, raspy tone and it causes Louis’ body to feel funny. He hadn’t expected  _that_  kind of voice, so deep and posh and it’s perfect for Harry somehow, considering he doesn’t even  _know_  him.

Perrie, Harry’s  _whatever_ , shakes her head frantically. “No, no you are  _not_  fine,  _Harry Styles_! Did they drug—oh, god, they did, didn’t they? I told you not to accept anyone’s drinks!” It’s like they all blinked, because out of the blue she’s ripping out a hot pink taser from her clutch and waving it out around manically, reaching around until it lands on Zayn’s neck and everyone watches with wide eyes as the man jolts and falls onto his knees, gripping at Liam’s arm for support.

When Liam is distracted by Zayn’s frozen-like body, she quickly gets him in the neck, too, but with more struggle as Liam refuses to go down at once. She doesn’t stop until Liam is reaching out to grab her, and she flits away.

“Run, Harry!” Perrie screams. “They were going to gangbang you!”

By now, said Harry is sitting up in alert, with shock and confusion written on his features as he watches the blonde girl start flailing in Zayn’s arms, but it’s Louis that is startled when Harry’s big, wide eyes blink open and reveal a bright green color. He feels like Perrie slapped  _him_ , or he got hit by a train, or something—even from across the room and as the strobe lights from below flash behind Harry, Louis can see his eyes perfectly, he can see how big, and frog-like they really are, and how warm they seem, and how they shine from the lights above them.

The said boy blinks those big eyes, “What’s going on here?” he drawls out lowly.

“Gangbang!” Perrie shouts yet again and tussles in Zayn’s arms, who had struggled to get up from the floor and latch on to the girl, who clearly belongs in a special house somewhere up north. “You have to get outta here!”

Harry looks taken aback. “Gangba—who’s trying to rape me?” He rolls his eyes, “Zayn wasn’t hurting me, Perrie. How drunk are you? I’m alright.”

“No,” Perrie fish mouths, and Louis can now see how dilated her eyes really are. She’s not drunk, but definitely high on something else. “They were going to hurt you, they were—“

“No, we were not,” Zayn snaps. He lets go of Perrie’s arms, yanks the taser away from her, and walks back over to Liam’s side, watching as the girl runs towards her friend. “We were going to go dance, but then Harry tripped and hit his head, so we brought him up here.”

“Per,” Harry starts with a sigh. “Per, I’m alright, yeah? I just got a little bump on my noggin, but they were just trying to help me.” He shifts on the desk and leans forward, going to stand up and stumbling on spaghetti-like long legs.

Louis’ reaching out not a second later, but his stance by the door wouldn’t have helped anyone, and he watches as Zayn puts an arm around Harry’s broad shoulders. He’s not sulking; he’s  _not_ , when he goes back to hide in the shadows, by the door, crossing his hands together in front of him.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Harry mumbles, slapping gently at all the hands on him, holding him upright. He stands up slowly again, stretching out his long legs, reaching out with tone, tatted up arms to grab onto his friend, and Louis can only watch the way his body moves and how his stomach ripples beneath a thin, white tee, and his own mouth dries up at the sight of Harry’s long body standing up straight, all elongated and lean and completely gorgeous.

He misses the last bits of conversation, wholly distracted by the long boy with the dark curls, but the latter is holding on tight to Perrie, who it seems may or may not have gotten riled up again, threatening to pull out yet another taser, this one with  _prongs_. Harry’s trying to comfort her, get her to settle down, but the blonde girl is not having it.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Liam asks, completely annoyed and bored. Besides him, Zayn’s also got an exasperated look plaguing his sculpted face. Their respective highs must have worn off, just like Louis’ is, too.

“You took my friend! He could’ve died you know!” She furrows her bold eyebrows and gets on her knees, helping Harry lace a pair of old, worn out suede boots. The boots are so old, Louis can almost see Harry’s feet through them, he can see how his toes wiggle in them through the thin fabric; they even have a small heel on them, which Louis thinks he shouldn’t find so appealing. Everything about Harry Styles seems interesting.

Harry whines, “Perald, stop it. Zayn wasn’t trying to do anything; we were just talking, calm down.”

Zayn nods, agreeing frantically. “I wasn’t trying to hurt him, promise,” he says softly, eyes on Harry like Elmer’s Glue, and it makes Louis uneasy.

“Let’s just go home, yeah, Perrie?”

 _Home?_  They have a home together?  _Are_  they a  _thing_? Louis looks at their close embrace, the way the thin blonde girl is smiling up sweetly at the boy, but he can’t see the chemistry, can’t tell if there is an actual honest-to-God relationship there. He doesn’t know them, but—but Harry’s just too good for her; she’s too bizarre, some sort of crazy, hopped up on drugs just like—just like he is, just like Louis, exactly.

 He’s not good for Harry either, but it’s not like it matters, right? At the end of the day, Louis Tomlinson is just a killer, the son of the most powerful woman in the world, the man who’s going to rule the most powerful  _family business_  in the world—and that’s not good for someone like Harry Styles, who trips over his own two feet and has nostrils that flare cutely, like a frog. It doesn’t matter; it doesn’t, because the chances of running into him again in a city like Chicago are slim to none.

“I’m sorry,” Perrie apologizes quietly, pursing her red lips. “I completely ruined your first time.”

_His first time?_

“Eh,” Harry shrugs indifferently, smiling softly. “We can do something tomorrow if you want, we can go to that pancake house?”

Perrie perks up again, complete 180, and Louis knows now she was snorting some of her own, low-grade coke downstairs. “Yes! Yum!”

Harry starts walking towards the door, hand completely clasped with Perrie’s, with two fingers residing near his temple. His head must still be hurting, if the wince he makes as he touches it is any indication. “What happened?” He asks Zayn.

“Uh, like after you passed out, I brought you up here, you know—away from drunks who might try something on you, I didn’t want you to be alone. Except, at that time, I didn’t know about this one,” Zayn states, looking at Perrie with cautious eyes. “So I just brought you up here and cleaned you up.”

Louis wants to let out a truly unattractive snort at Zayn’s version of events; he clearly wants to be seen as the hero, how he came to the rescue when Harry was like a fucking damsel in distress or some shit. Louis wants to let out how his brother came up here totally chill and how he  _did_  leave Harry on the floor surrounded by drunks, but he’s not in the mood for that. He’s suddenly grown very tired, his bones aching.

Harry nods at Zayn appreciably. He flinches when his fingers find the bandage on his temple. “Who did this?”

Liam speaks up, “Louis did.” He holds his hands up innocently. “He was the only one to touch you.”

“Louis?” Harry asks in a confused tone. “Who’s Louis?”

“Uh, hi,” he says, speaking out loud for the first time since Harry had woken up. “I’m Louis.” Harry spins around, finding his eyes where he stands by the bathroom door, looking at him in shock. It’s the first time those green eyes have locked with Louis’, and the latter feels a rush of heat spread through his body at the motion. The room goes quiet, and Harry doesn’t move his eyes back to Perrie nor does he make another step towards the door and out into the hallway, no; he just blinks his immense, vivid eyes up at Louis from across the room, agape.

“Uh, thank you. For this—for the bandage,” Harry stutters ducking his head, cheeks flushing. “I should probably go to the doctor, though.”

Louis wants to rush across the room and place his fingers over the span of Harry’s cheeks and feel the heat beneath them, and isn’t that the most ridiculous thing anyone has ever heard? If Liam and Zayn could read his mind, they’d be calling him a  _pussy_  and never letting him live it down. It’s so dumb, is the thing, the way his body reacts to this  _boy_ , this young stranger in dire need of a haircut and some new boots and maybe even a session or two of laser tattoo removal, but he  _likes_ his long curls, and his tragic, torn boots, and his prison tats that probably tell so many stories.

It’s fucking  _odd_. How high is he?

Harry is snapping his head back up and narrowing his eyes at Louis, edge in his tone, “Is something funny?”

It takes Louis a couple seconds to realize that everyone in the room is starring at him with peculiar looks, like he’s gone insane, and that he’s completely laughing out loud like a maniac. His mouth snaps shut, “No, no there’s nothing funny. I-I didn’t mean to offend you.”

Harry face completely morphs from irritation and embarrassment to confusion and concern. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Don’t mind him,” Liam waves him off. “He’s completely gone, if you know what I mean.”

“Oh,” Harry mumbles and nods. He blushes again when he meets Louis’ gaze and smiles, a deep dimple forming on his cheek. Because Louis Tomlinson isn’t already so endeared with the man’s cheeks, there needs to be fucking dimples, too? “Thank you, Louis,” he repeats.

Louis breathes out, “You’re welcome.” He’s frustrated, in a way, and—and disappointed, for some reason he can’t recognize. Before he can open his mouth again and blab something he most likely will regret, Perrie is shuffling Harry along, pushing them out the door and into the hallway.

“If you must know, we will be taking our business elsewhere from now on,” she calls out to them, glaring through thick, fake lashes at them all. “You’ll be lucky if Harry convinces me not to press charges against you,” she points at Zayn.

“Bye!” Harry waves at them before the door slams shut.

The room is quiet yet again, only the sounds of the loud bass from below can fill it and Louis’ not sure if that all happened or not. He can’t tell if he’s still high or not, his brain isn’t fuzzy, but his body is still trembling and his heart is beating so fast, it might’ve left a bruise on his chest, trying to escape. The bizarre fluttering that had started when an unconscious Harry was carried in is still there, and he doesn’t understand that.

Maybe that’s what frustrates him the most—he doesn’t  _understand_  these  _feelings_. Louis is smart; he’s a fucking genius when it comes to business, or guns, or trade, and he comprehends people; yet another reason why he’s going to become the boss, but Harry isn’t like one of those no-good people that Louis does business with. Harry doesn’t seem like the type of person who would want to do a line or two and talk about who’s next to execute for betrayal.

How does Louis talk to a normal person? Why does he have the urge to see Harry again? Maybe it’s all a misconception, maybe Louis is being a victim of beer goggles, or in this case, coke goggles, and his mind is tricking him. After all, Zayn was interested in Harry first, and he and his brother never go after the same type of men. Come on now, Zayn likes men like Liam, all buff and strong and… Liam-like. Not Louis’ cup of tea, not one bit, and certainly not the vibe he got from Harry.

By four a.m., the bar is empty and the dance floor is quickly dispersing.  Zayn is somewhere downstairs, begging for another shot, and according to Liam’s grunts from before he left Louis’ office, Sophia is not answering her phone after she was ditched by him. Liam had just forgotten about her, and that kinda speaks for itself. Louis is just sitting at his desk thinking.

The cocaine is completely faded from his system and his body has stopped shaking hours ago, but the problem is that Harry Styles is still bouncing around in his mind. He can’t seem to get rid of him, no matter how hard he tries. It’s annoying, but what wouldn’t he give to fuck that boy on the very same desk he’s at right now? He runs his hands over the smooth surface of the cherry oak, and maybe it’s a little sad or perhaps a little creepy, but he can definitely imagine Harry sprawled out on the surface, begging for Louis, his plump lips red like velvet, swollen from having his mouth fucked.

He’s just—Harry’s just  _beautiful._ Louis understands  _that_ ; he’s surrounded by beautiful people all the time, from his job to his extra-curricular, ahem, activities. It makes him a shallow man, no doubt of it, but it’s not something he’s ashamed of; he knows what beauty is, but pure beauty, a beauty that someone is born with is so hard to find nowadays, yet he highly doubts there’s an ounce of plastic on Harry’s body. It’s hard to come across a man, or a woman, with natural good looks, with such an exceptional beauty like the clumsy man he met hours ago.

It’s difficult for Louis to understand that he hasn’t actually gotten a taste of Harry Styles, because he thinks if he got Harry alone for just five minutes, the latter would’ve been gagging for it. Maybe right now Harry would’ve been bent over the desk, instead of Louis just fantasizing about it like a loser. He’s never had to  _fantasize_ ; since he was fourteen, he just…he got some whenever he wanted. That was not a problem.

Harry’s kind of like an itch Louis can’t scratch now that he’s seen him and it’s an uncomfortable feeling. He’s like a fix and Louis is the addict, and he needs a hit sooner rather than later, because Louis Tomlinson might just go right mental. It’s possible.

 Zayn might’ve found Harry, but Louis’ name will be falling from Harry’s delicious mouth—it’s a goddamn test to Louis now,  _Harry_  is the challenge, and he never gives up. He doesn’t know how to stop, and the boy just became a challenge worth conquering, a triumph soon to occur.

There’s a knock on the door and he’s a bit thankful people are starting to remember their manners, instead of just barging in, and Liam peeks his head in. “We’re waiting for you out front, bro.”

Louis furrows his eyebrows and is shocked to see it had gotten so late quickly. “Just give me a sec to get the merchandize into the briefcase,” he points at the kilos of coke on his desk. Liam only nods and shuts the door behind him, and Louis is quick to put the drugs into an empty briefcase, locking it up with haste. He makes sure everything on the desk is neat for the next time he comes, most likely in three months, and walks over a chair to get his jacket.

“What is this?” He picks up a discarded wallet on the chair, turning it over carefully. It’s brown, probably fake leather from the texture, and inside there are a few cards, a twenty, and a Massachusetts driver’s license belonging to one very pretty Harry Edward Styles. He closes his eyes for a few moments, quickly scanning through his memory, and recalls that Harry did have a wallet-shaped bulge in his back pocket when he was first carried into the office by Preston. It must’ve slipped out at some point.

He snaps his eyes back open with a smile. He’s got Harry’s wallet now, something he’ll go looking for very soon. Now he has assurance that tonight won’t be the last time he’ll see the boy, that their paths  _will_  cross again, and that’s all he needs to calm his racing mind. Now, finding Harry won’t be a problem at all.

Let the games begin. 

 


	4. Dick and Disappointment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Not mine.

 

* * *

 

_"Do not try to fight a lion if you are not one yourself." - African Proverb_

 

Google is useless, absolutely useless. Bing is much worse; he knew that even _before_ he went on the hunt, so why he even bothered with it is beyond him. He’s been on artsy-type websites with hundreds of color wheels, on fucking Wikipedia, and even on sites selling wall paint. _Blue? Light cornflower blue? Light sky blue?_ Harry, himself, is just a sad blob of useless, too.

Never in his eighteen years of breathing has he seen that kind of blue. Never, he’s damn sure of it. His mind won’t stop racing and he’s hardly slept a wink. Since coming back last night, or this morning, from Northwestern Memorial Hospital, his mind hasn’t been able to shut off, and every time he closes his eyes, his lids are plagued with blue. God, Harry barely knows the man’s name, he only spoke around five words to him, but—but he has to find out exactly what shade of blue his eyes are.

It was just an instant attraction to the shirtless man, an awakening in his system not caused by alcohol, and Harry just wanted to get on his knees for him, or run his fingers through his silky-looking strands, or leave wet, open mouthed kisses on his tattooed chest, or _get on his knees for him_. Whichever, Harry’s not a picky guy. He’s seen many hot men before, obviously, he _does_ have access to the internet, but never anything like Louis. He’s never felt like that before, either, that instant pull, that _Spark_.

Harry’s always believed that the Spark was only fantasy, that it ceased to exist in real life, but he was wrong, because he met Louis last night and the Spark was right there besides him, poking at his heart like a small child saying, _see, see! I told you so!_ Perrie, on the hand, was not very pleased to hear about the sudden appearance of the Spark, and on the way to the hospital in the early morning, she refused to answer who Louis was or _how in the hell does he look like that_? She was still furious, sat in the backseat with Harry during the cab ride almost completely silent, huffing and pressing too-hard on her iPhone screen with long nails. It was incredibly amusing.

But now, it’s still early and he can’t go to sleep because all he sees is _blue_ —which is actually more than okay, considering his slight concussion, and although the kind doctor said that not waking up if you fall asleep with a concussion is just a myth and that rest is the best thing you can have, Harry’s not going to risk it—and he’s _embarrassed_. He’s truly, madly, deeply embarrassed like he’s never been before. The way he acted during his short time awake and alert in the office hit him the moment he sat down on an uncomfortable, plastic chair in the ER, and _god_ , he could barely speak when Louis was looking at him, completely dumbfounded. He probably drooled, too, he doesn’t doubt it.

His head still throbs slightly, nothing too uncomfortable or painful thanks to the medication. He had been so surprised to see his reflection in the windowpane of the taxi before it sped off; there was a thin, white head bandage wrapped around his curls so neatly that he was almost convinced Louis was a doctor. The gash wasn’t severe and it didn’t need a bandage, but it was just—just so _sweet_. He could’ve done with just another band aid, honestly. Even the doctor at the hospital was surprised, and in the end just gave Harry a generic butterfly band aid.

Harry scrolls through images on Google and frowns. Is it completely insane to be looking up different shades of blue just to match the eyes of someone he met a few hours ago and only saw for no more than five seconds? _Yes, completely._ Is it entirely ludicrous to feel such a strong attraction to a person he doesn’t know? _Absolutely!_ Hell, he’s been on dates with runway models from New York before, and there was never such a strong physical attraction with them, nothing like this.

It’s something Harry can’t even explain to himself, he doesn’t know how he would start. They literally stared at each other for about four seconds before Perrie pushed him out of the door and— _Louis totally stared back_. He’s been so focused on what a creep he must have looked like to Louis— just staring at him like a serial killer— that he forgot that Louis was indeed staring back at him. Albeit that Louis didn’t look like he wanted to murder Harry, but whatever—he was so staring back. Did he feel the _spark,_ too?

He just needs to see him once more, just once more and maybe then he’ll be set for the rest of his life. Probably, maybe, perhaps. Just once more.

_Medium sky blue? Vivid sky blue? Deep sky blue? Blizzard, Ball, Columbia, or Aero blue?_ According to the all powerful, all knowing internet, there are an infinite number of possible shades of blue, which doesn’t really help Harry in his quest.  Another site states there are fifty thousand shades, which, okay, closer but not quiet helpful, either. He’s been home since five in the morning, and now at nine-thirty, he’s seen half of them and not one is the correct match.

_Louis_. Harry’s a love-sick teenager, it’s disgusting, he’s disgusted in himself. He’s eighteen years old for God’s sake; he does not need to be obsessing over someone’s eye color or researching what their name means. (Louis, according to a dozen or so baby-naming websites, means _famous warrior_. Now, Harry doesn’t know about the fame part, but warrior sounds about right. It also sends images of Louis dressed up as a knight, slaying dragons left and right trying to get his princess, also known as Harry, safe and sound. No one has to know about that, though.)

“God, Harry,” he mumbles to himself, rubbing at his eyes with closed fists. “Pull yourself together, man.” Something happened last night; he knows that, he can feel its remains coursing through his bloodstream. Louis was high last night, that much was obvious, but Harry was incredibly sober, yet he feels as though they both traveled high to the same clouds. He feels as though Louis is _familiar_ , in a way, like—like he’s felt the same hidden fire that runs through Louis, somehow. It was like, even intoxicated, Louis was calling out to him. He could sense it. Harry was drawn to him and he finds it strange.

Through tedious Google searches that take up most of his morning, Harry finds an article on Zayn. He reads articles about all the businesses the young man owns with wide eyes, and finds an interesting article on a Tomlinson family. He reads that Zayn was adopted and has four younger sisters, and two brothers, Liam and Louis. He clicks without hesitation on the Louis’ link and immediately he pops up with a page of articles. _Louis Tomlinson_ —the name fits him well.

Before he can click on anything, his phone starts blaring obnoxiously on the pillow besides him. _Who run the world? Girls! Who run the world? Girls! Who run this motha? Girls!_ _Who run th—_ he rolls his eyes and presses a hand against his temple to stop the sudden throbbing, sliding a finger over his phone screen without looking. “Hi, Perrie.”

“What’s wrong with your voice?” Is the first thing his blonde friend blurts through the mouth piece.  “Did you go running? You know the doctor said—“ Harry clears his throat and tries to make it sound normal. How does he normally talk? “No,” he squeaks, “I’m fine, just here. Hanging out.”

“Whatever.” Harry can almost hear her eyes roll. “Let’s do something, yeah? To make up for the disaster that was last night. I can’t believe—no, you know what? I’m not going to get into it again, it’s not worth it. I just mediated; I don’t need this extra stress.”

“Um, well, I kinda just wanted to stay in today. ‘Sides, it’s like, ten in the morning, and there’s not much to do on a Sunday, is there?”

“Ooh, I know,” Perrie says excitedly, completely dismissing his lethargy. “Why don’t we have a picnic at Grant Park? We can pick up something from a deli and just have brunch on one of the fields. It’s still early; we might totally see some hot guys running around shirtless, all sweaty.”

“Don’t want some hot guys,” Harry mumbles, turning back to his awaiting laptop. It’s gone black, so he swipes at the touchpad and it wakes up, quickly flashing back to Chrome and the article the Tomlinson family, with a picture of Louis and his siblings, all dressed up in a black suit. _Gorgeous, completely gorgeous_ , Harry thinks.  “I have things to do, Per.”

Perrie scoffs on the other end in disbelief. “What the hell do you have going on?”

Harry stammers. “Uh, well, basically I was going to g—“

“Exactly, nothing! Be ready in two hours,” she says firmly, “because I _do_ want some hot guys.”

When she hangs up, Harry groans and falls back onto a pillow, grabbing his laptop and pulling it on top of his bare chest. There’s a lot of talk about a Johannah Tomlinson, apparently one of the most influential women in the world. He wonders if his mom knows who the lady is. There’s a promotional paragraph about the oldest brother, Liam, who was also in the room with them at the club, and apparently the tall man is the owner of _Fiction_. The article only has two sentences on Louis, and it’s only about how successful he thinks Zayn’s art gallery is. Zayn has an art gallery?

He exists out of that and goes back to the main search until a headline catches his eye: _Chicago’s Sexiest Bachelors_. He thinks the page can’t load any slower, but soon there’s thumbnails of eleven good-looking men, and it’s number three that catches his eye. _Number three_? How is it possible that Louis Tomlinson didn’t easily snatch up the number one spot? He clicks on the small icon and instantly feels his chest tighten.

Louis Tomlinson is leaning against a glass floor-to-ceiling window in the photograph, overlooking the grand city casually, dressed in another form-fitting navy suit on top of a neat, white button down, and lacking a tie. His hair isn’t swooped to side in sharp pieces like last night, instead it had been styled in what the English call a quiff, and he makes it look spectacular.  Harry thinks _gorgeous_ isn’t strong enough of a word to pin on Louis Tomlinson. Maybe he’s going to have to do another Google search.

_Statuesque? Bewitching? Divine, sublime,_ or _pulchritudinous_?

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Harry asks himself, running a hand through his loose hair.

He reads the short article with attention, soaking in every word and detail. _Louis Tomlinson, age 24_. Six years older than him—that’s _nice_. Harry’s known he’s been attracted to older men since he was sixteen and had an urge to blow his Geometry teacher, a forty-something year old with Jesus sandals who sported a five o’clock shadow nearly every day. But Mr. Stacey doesn’t hold a candle anywhere near Louis.

_Louis Tomlinson comes from the old Tomlinson business dynasty and has grown up in the greatest areas of Chicago, in the upper echelon of Chicago’s society. His mother, Johannah Tomlinson, took over the empire after her second husband, Marcos Tomlinson, passed away, leaving her to raise Louis, his older brothers Liam (from a previous marriage) and Zayn (who was adopted at a young age), and four younger sisters. Aside from Liam—who is in a steady relationship with Sophia Smith, Johannah’s secretary at the Tomlinson headquarters—Zayn and Louis are both single, but it seems as though Louis is the only serious one when it comes to dating. As an up-and-coming real estate mogul, who loves to put his money into the music industry as well, the youngest Tomlinson son has already been dubbed as a revamped James Dean-type—with better hair, of course._

_“I like women who are intelligent,” Louis tells us._ Wait—Harry stops, women? Is he straight? But the whole staring fiasco—huh? Maybe Louis is bisexual or something, because what is written in Times New Roman is a lot different than what he felt last night, that connection and electricity that he felt run through his veins. 

_“I can’t sit around and listen to a girl go on and on about clothes and nails, or anything materialistic like that. I like to have interesting conversations, like what’s going in the world, what her opinions on Israel and Palestine are, or how the Russian people are affected by Putin. I love a woman who is confident—someone that will come up to me and start conversation, instead of playing around and trying to get my attention. Confidence is sexy.”_

_While Tomlinson knows he won’t be settling down until he’s a few years older, it doesn’t stop him from having fun and discovering people. “I like to go out and test the waters, just meet someone and have a good time with them. You never know who you might meet,” he tells us with a sly smile._

Harry shuts his laptop with a slight slam and groans, rolling over to press his face into a pillow. He feels heat rushing through his body, pooling in the pit of his stomach, and he doesn’t even try to stop his body, as his hips rut up against the duvet beneath him. He’s a hundred percent sure that never in his young life has he felt such a calling for someone before, never has he felt such a strong physical attraction. Not even at seventeen, when he went through a growth spurt and drunk college boys wanted to sink their teeth into him.

He’s not a virgin, far from it. He’s had a few boyfriends, and one girlfriend who turned out to be a lesbian, and his innocence has been gone for quite some time now, so why does a picture of Louis Tomlinson dressed up in a suit make him want to hump something and come in his boxers like a fourteen year old?

He keeps his hips moving against the bed, face flushed deep into the pillow until it gets harder to breathe. He gasps for air as he turns his face to the side and moans. He can’t believe he’s actually doing this, actually rutting against his sheets and comforter like some kind of animal. He keeps going at it until his breath gets caught in his throat and the dry friction is just too much, so he turns on his back, tugging on the waistband of his boxers until they pool at his ankles.

He’s red and hard like steel, and he knows that if he doesn’t get a wet hand on himself or fingers up his ass, he might just explode—and not in the good sense. He reaches over to grab some lotion, his favorite _Sensual Blush_ by Victoria’s Secret, and slicks up his hand. Harry gasps lowly in pleasure when he finally wraps a hot hand around his length, tugging slowly with a closed fist. His hips jerk up instantly when he thumbs at his sli—

“Harry!”

Harry sits up in shock and groans in frustration. Perrie Edwards always has to ruin his fun, doesn’t she?  The girl knocks again, loud and impatiently, and Harry jerks up from the bed. His dick is standing up straight, so mad and pulsating that it _hurts_ , and there’s no way he’ll be able to get rid of her to finish himself off. He hops off the bed, completely forgetting the boxers wrapped around his ankles until he takes his first step and tumbles onto the floor.

“Fuck, _fuck_ ,” he cries out on the floor. His dick throbs angrily and there’s going to be bruises on his ass come tomorrow, and _ow_. He sits up, leaning against the side of his bed and sighs, ignoring Perrie’s complaints about being locked out. He stands after a few, thinking of his grandmother’s false teeth floating around in a glass filled with water, walking in on his sister and her dumb boybander boyfriend one night, people kicking puppies— _anything_ to get rid of his now-unfortunate erection.

“Are you going to open this damn door or do I have to break in again?” Perrie asks in monotone from the other side of the door. He can hear her mumble and tap her feet impatiently through the door. He _definitely_ doesn’t want her to pick the lock like she so expertly does, not right now when his underwear is tangled at his feet and his dick is just scarcely softening.

He pulls on a tee shirt and some long, plaid sleeping pants on after he pulls his boxers up. He rushes to the bathroom and winces at his flushed face and swollen lips, his eyes glassy—he looks completely gone, there’s no way his new friend won’t be able to tell. He fixes his slight situation in his underwear and breathes out deeply, before going to open the door with a hopefully convincing smile.

“Per—“

“ _Finally_.” Perrie budges in and rolls her eyes, going to sit on the bed, holding up a brown paper bag with what Harry believes is the deli food for the picnic. “I came early.” She clears up with a grin, “Got too bored at my place. So. What’s wrong with you?” She squints blue eyes at him in suspicion.

Harry fights the heat rushing to his face, is he so obvious? He glances at the alarm clock flashing red on his nightstand and is surprised to see an hour had passed since the blond, leggy girl first called. “I didn’t even notice, a-about the hour,” he waves her off with a nervous giggle. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll just go get dressed.”

“No, wait,” Perrie stops him as he passes to go to the bathroom. “What’s wrong with your face, why are you so pink-cheeked? Are you trying a new blush?” She reaches up and rubs at his hot cheeks, surprised to see her thumb come back clean. Harry fans himself with a hand. “Just a bit hot in here, ‘s all.”

Perrie lights up, “It _is_ hot outside, especially early September. That’s why I was thinking—“

“Oh, _God_ —“

“—that instead of Grant Park, we just pop on over to the beach! What do you say—Lake Michigan!” Perrie gives him her mega-watt smile, bright pink lips stretched so far that it must hurt. “And don’t worry, because I got you this.” She pulls out a small, white plastic bag with countries written in bold black letters from her tote bag and hands it over to Harry. “They should fit you.”

Inside the plastic bag is a pair of dark swim shorts. When he pulls them out, he notes that they’re small and dark blue with red polka-dots on them, and that they’ve got to at least hit him at upper thigh. “They’re really nice,” he answers, digging around for the tags. His eyes almost jump out of their sockets when he sees the price. “You spent _fifty dollars_ on a pair of board shorts for me? Perrie, honestly, you didn’t have to do that, we could’ve just stopped by Wal-Mart or—“

“Wal-Mart?” Perrie asks with confusion. “The place where they make walls? You really think you’re going to find decent shorts there?” She scoffs at his silliness and scoots back on the bed, grabbing his laptop from underneath a pillow. “Just go change, ‘m hungry.”

“They don’t make walls at Wal-Mart, Perrie,” Harry mumbles stuffing the swimwear back into the bag and going to his closet to pick out a shirt. “I don’t think sand and open wounds mix, though,” he says, pointing to the bandage on his head.

Perrie shrugs, “Just make sure not to get it wet or get sand on it. You’ll be fine.”

When Harry comes back dressed from the bathroom, his friend is still on the laptop. He ignores her, dropping sun block, a snapback, and a pair of knock-off Ray Bans into her tote bag.

“Why do you have around six tabs on Louis Tomlinson open?” Perrie asks with a devious smirk on her face, eyes blinking at him innocently.

_Fuck_ , he completely forgot about his research, a little hung up over jerking off and then being interrupted by Perrie, that he forgot to close the browser. He leans over the bed and snaps the laptop shut in her lap, before picking it up with one hand and setting it on his desk. “I’m ready to go, are you good? We should head out.”

“No, no,” she protests, getting up from the bed and placing her hands on her hips in the most stubborn matter. “Tell me why you were looking up Louis Tomlinson.”

“So you _do_ know who he is!”

Perrie rolls her eyes, “Of fucking course I do. I was born here, Harry, I know who _all_ the Tomlinson’s are. You can’t even get ice cream at a drugstore without seeing them splashed all over the newspapers.” She slips the bag over her shoulder and struts towards the door in her wedges. “By the way, I totally ran out of money at the deli and I forgot my cards back home. Can you pay for the cab?”

“Uh, yeah,” Harry nods, eyes flittering all around the small room for sight of his wallet. He picks up the jeans he wore to the club from inside his hamper and frowns when he comes up empty-handed, back pockets bare. “I swear I had it with me when we went into _Fiction_ last night.”

They search for an hour before Perrie gives up and plops back on the bed. “I know you had it last night, right before you started talking to Zayn Tomlinson. Maybe it slipped out onto one of the couches or something.”

“No,” Harry disagrees, getting up from his spot on the floor, checking underneath the bed. “Do you know how long it took me just to squeeze the thing into my pocket? It couldn’t have just  _slipped_ out, there’s no way. I would’ve felt if someone was trying to reach for it, too.”

Perrie shrugs. “You probably just left it at the club, no biggie. I’m sure they find things like that all the time. We can call, if you’d like, see if what’s-his-name picked it up. What’d you have in it?”

His heart starts racing at the thought of going back to the elite club and running into Louis again. “Just some money, my driver’s license, nothing too important. Do you, uh, think Zayn might’ve picked it up?” he asks cautiously, afraid his voice will give away his rising excitement. Before Perrie can roll her eyes at his love-struck teenager-like status, Harry’s phone starts ringing, making the whole bed vibrate softly and Harry’s words get stuck in his throat.

The friends stare at each other for a few, slow seconds, his phone filling the room with Lana Del Rey’s crooning. Harry lunges at it the second Perrie does, but the girl is only an arm’s length from the device and reaches it smoothly.

“Hello,” Perrie greets chirpily. “Yes, he is. Who’s calli—oh, yes, of course, just a moment?” Perrie’s eyes widen and she passes the phone over to one stunned Harry, covering the mouthpiece with one hand. “It’s Louis Tomlinson!”

Suddenly, all Harry’s seeing is _blue blue blue_ and he’s holding his old iPhone in limp hands, the throb is back in his head (and thankfully not in his pants), and _Louis Tomlinson_ wants to speak with him. It’s blue like Katama Beach he spent all his summers swimming in as a kid, it’s blue like the first nail polish he bought for himself at sixteen, with rosy cheeks and embarrassed stammers, blue like his favorite denim jacket, the one with the wool around the collar.   _Why is he calling?_

“Are you going to answer or just sit there?”

His eyes snap back up to Perrie’s concerned face and he lets out a soft smile. He’d hate for Louis to hang up, to think he’s just some annoying kid who can’t even walk in a straight line. “Hello?”

There’s a clearing of a throat and then a soft, raspy voice is filling his eardrums. _“Is this Harry? From_ Fiction _?”_ _God_ , Harry wishes he had that voice on the phone hours earlier, before Perrie interrupted; he would’ve been done in a matter of minutes.

“Uh, yes, this is he, Harry. I’m Harry.” He wants to slap himself, making a fool of himself while on the phone with Chicago’s third sexiest bachelor, he’s pretty sure even Perrie feels the embarrassment coming off of him in wavelengths.

Louis is quiet for a few long seconds and Harry can hear shuffling in the background. “ _Listen, I don’t know if you remember_ _me, but_ —“

“Of course!” Harry blurts out loudly before he can stop himself. “Of course I remember, you helped me with my head, cleaned me up,” he adds a little more quietly.

“ _Right_ ,” Louis laughs lightly and Harry thinks the angels have started singing. “ _I have your wallet; I found it in my office. There was like, a list of numbers and I just called the one that said this number was your cell. Very smart of you_.”

“Dork,” Perrie whispers from besides him, where her head is pressed up against his, listening intently.  

“Oh, well, you know what they say. Gotta be prepared and everything,” Harry mumbles into the phone, pushing Perrie away with one hand. Louis laughs again, and Harry can’t help the inevitable smile that crawls on his own face. He’s got such a great—such a _wonderful_ laugh, if he could just make Louis laugh for the rest of his life, like an enjoyable, rewarding job, he thinks he’d be set for life. “Thank you for calling about it, though.”

“ _It’s not problem, Harry_. _Now, do you want me to bring it to you or will you meet me here?”_

Oh. He isn’t expecting this; he isn’t _read_ y to see him again! He just humped his mattress over a few internet pictures of him in a suit, how can he face him after that? In truth, Harry was expecting his assistant or something, not Louis Tomlinson himself. Surely, the man has better things to do than bring a random college kid his wallet back and—

And his driver’s license is in his wallet. Louis must’ve seen it, recognizing him, and saw his DOB. The man must have put two and two together and realized Harry is underage, had no place in a club like _Fiction_. If he had the slightest, minimal chance to be with Louis, it’s all gone now.

“ _Harry? You there?_ ” Louis asks with a twinge of impatience.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m right here.” He glances over to the side where Perrie is scribbling something on one of his journals, holding it up for him to read. “The beach? Oh, uh, my friend and I were just going to head out to the beach, North Ave, can we meet there? Say, in like an hour?” He holds his breath for a response.

“ _Okay, Harry. We’ll meet at the volleyball courts in an hour._ ”

Louis hangs up promptly with no goodbye, leaving Harry open-mouth with a dial tone ringing in his ears. “That was so weird,” he hangs up and gets up from the bed to slip into some shoes.

“You _like_ him,” Perrie sing-songs from her spot, watching him with a mischievous grin.  She holds up a finely manicured nail when he tries to protest. “Oh, _please_ , stop lying to me! Do you know how many girls would’ve killed for a phone call from Louis Tomlinson, or even just a short meet up to return a wallet? Although, to be honest, I’m surprised he’s going to personally deliver it instead of having one of his assistants drop it off.”

 

 

 

“So, Louis Tomlinson, huh?” Perrie starts up again forty minutes later, once they’ve settled nicely on the beach, warm sand in between their toes.  “Do you see him?” She lies back on her towel, large sunglasses covering her petite face.

Harry stretches his neck out like a giraffe, body twisting around looking for the sandy-haired man. The beach isn’t too crowded, and they’re sat next to the volleyball courts, just like Louis had instructed on the phone. The time on Harry’s phone informs him that it’s getting close to the hour, so Louis Tomlinson should be arriving any minuet now. “I don’t see him, I hardly know what he looks like,” he fibs. He lies back down on his towel, covering his face with his Ray-Bans, hoping for a little sun to kiss his skin. “I only met him for a few seconds before you violently pushed me out the door.”

Perrie shudders. “I had to get you out of there, Harry. I don’t—it just felt _strange_ , the vibes in there were all mixed and forced, not a bit pleasant. There was just something going on in that room that I didn’t like.”

Harry closes his eyes and digs a hand into the hot sand besides him, fingers curling around the microscopic particles. He feels the tension leaving his body as his skin, lathered with 50+ SPF, absorbs the sun. He doesn’t really understand what Perrie means by bad vibes, _he_ sure didn’t feel anything strange or eerie, but then again he was passed out for most of it and when he was awake, his attention was consumed by one gorgeous bachelor, so.

Perrie speaks up again, “Do you need me to go with you? Moral support and all. I mean, he is probably just using your wallet to get to you, he probably likes you, too.”

“Yeah, right,” Harry scoffs. “I just hope he didn’t go through my stuff. I have an embarrassing picture of my sister and I in there, and a three year old packet of lube. Plus, there’s the thing with my driver’s license.”

“Wait, what thing with your license?”

“Per, my license has my birth date on it,” he explains. The girl just turns her head around to meet his eyes and props her sunglasses on her head, squinting at him in confusion. “He’ll see that I’m only eighteen, and that I was drinking at his brother’s club. He’s probably just coming down here to tell us never to go there again, or something, or yell at me.”

“Please,” she waves him off and settles comfortably on the towel. “Harry, trust me, it’s not that big of a deal. It’s not like he’s going to go to the cops and tell on you like a little kid. ‘Sides, he probably likes you.”

“Don’t be dumb,” Harry mumbles. There’s no way that’s possible; Louis Tomlinson, Chicago’s third Sexiest Bachelor, coming all the way down to the beach to hand-deliver a wallet, because he _likes_ someone? Although Harry does find it odd, considering that the wealthy businessman most likely has a lot to do, on par for wealthy businessmen, but he doesn’t _like_ Harry, no way. Someone like Louis Tomlinson can get whoever he wants, most likely has women lining up at his door.

“Listen, just be careful, alright? I’ve heard about girls who hook up with Louis Tomlinson. He never calls them back, he’s an actual dick to them, just uses them. Be careful.”

“But—but he was so nice to me the other night, he cleaned blood off of me. That has to mean something, right?”

Perrie doesn’t reply, just clicks her tongue in disagreement, and it’s quiet again aside from the crooning seagulls and the young laughter. It’s when the sun is gone, a shadow taking its place, and he doesn’t hear Perrie complain, that he hesitantly opens his eyes. There’s heat rushing through his body when he discovers Louis Tomlinson is at fault for the sun no longer shining down on him. In a way, Harry’s sun drunk mind thinks, Louis is like a darker type of sun, like a sun that doesn’t always shine on you, but whose presence always reminds you of a new day. Or something, really, he believes the wine Perrie sneaked onto the beach went directly to his brain cells.

“Uh, hi,” Harry croaks.

“Can we—,” Louis nods over to the sidewalk and makes a disgusted face at the sand by his shoe-clad feet. He looks completely out of his element, in a light blue button up with the sleeves rolled up and dark slacks. Not dressed for the beach, that’s for sure, but still incredibly handsome. Harry desperately hopes his glasses are dark enough to hide his obvious looks up and down Louis’ firm body.

Harry nods frantically, pushing himself of the towel and onto his bare feet. “I should, just—,” he looks over at Perrie, who’s lying still on her back, pink earphones plugged into her phone.

“I’ve been calling your name for five minutes now,” Louis states. “She’s asleep, I thought you were too.”

Harry flushes, shaking his head. “No, I wasn’t, I just—we should.” He jerks a thumb behind him, at the sidewalk. They make the short walk to cement quietly, and he’s suddenly so very aware of his half-naked status. Maybe it’s only fair, considering Louis was bare-chested when Harry first saw him, but God, Louis’ just so fit and toned and _wonderful_.

“Here,” Louis hands him his worn wallet. “I didn’t steal anything, promise.”

“How do I know you’re not lying?” Harry blurts out and wants to slap himself. _Hello_ , the man is a millionaire according to all those websites, why would he ever need a twenty or an old packet of once strawberry-flavored lube?

Louis shrugs and lifts up a corner of his lips in what might be amusement. “You’ll just have to trust me then, won’t you, Harry?”

He takes the wallet from his grip, and the urge to get eaten alive by the sand is so strong. The way the man says his name, so raspy and soft and strong, _Harry_. He’s never heard his name spoken like that, with a certain amount of authority and pleasantness before, and he loves it. “Did you go through my things?” He finally asks after a few beats of silence. No matter how hard is heart is racing or how crazy his thoughts are, he doesn’t want to appear like a frivolous school girl.

“No,” Louis says. “Didn’t feel the need to after I saw the small list of numbers, I didn’t want to impede on your privacy.” He folds his arms over his chest; eyes covered by Ray-Bans, ones that Harry believes are no doubt authentic.

Harry gives him a small smile, “Thank you. For returning this to me, really, thanks.”

“It’s no problem,” Louis grins.

“And for last night, too,” Harry points to the obvious butterfly bandage on his face, “That was really nice.”

Louis shrugs nonchalantly, a smirk covering the only part of his face that’s visible. “It’s not everyday that I get to wipe down such a beautiful face.”

Harry burns. His whole body is on fire, from his toes to the end of his curls. Was that some kind of pick-up line? Why did it work so good, is Harry that weak for this man? “Right, he mumbles. “You look really nice today,” he adds in nervously.

“Oh,” Louis looks down at himself, like he had forgotten what he put on in the morning. “I just came from mass. You don’t look so bad yourself. Nice shorts.”

Harry can feel a set of eyes raking over his body and he has to suppress the urge to tug on the hem of his shorts. “Thanks,” he says awkwardly.

“So,” Louis rocks backwards on his feet. “What are you doing for the rest of the day?”

“It’s the last day before school starts back up, so Per and I are just going to hang out and relax.”

Louis raises his eyebrows in surprise. “You’re still in school?”

_Right_. “Yes, yeah, I am,” Harry looks away, pleading Perrie with his mind to wake up from her slumber.

“Senior, then?” Louis asks, still smiling.

“Yes,” Harry blurts out the moment his lips part. He’s an _awful_ liar, completely terrible actor, how can Louis Tomlinson actually believe him? Why didn’t he just tell the truth and admit he’s only a freshman? Why does he feel the outrageous need to please the man? “Yes, I’m a senior.”

Louis nods, tongue flitting out to lick at his bottom lip. “Do you need a tutor? I was awfully good at school,” he adds with a cocky tone. “Perhaps I could help you out sometime.”

Harry’s hope plunders to his feet. So it is like Perrie said, Louis _does_ like him, but only for one reason. There’s chills up his spine and goose bumps that cover his arms despite the heat, and he feels—he feels like an outright _idiot_ , thinking that someone wealthy and notorious like Louis Tomlinson could actually like him, could actually like him and talk to him without wanting to fuck him first.  “It that a pick-up line?”

Louis just tilts his head to the side, and through his tinted lenses, Harry can see the way his eyes flit up and down his half-bare body. “So what if it is? What would you do?”

Suddenly, it all just feels too calculated, too planned. It feels like every moment and every glint in his eyes has been used before, practiced on girls and boys like Harry a dozen times before. It’s sick to feel flattered by it, but Harry can’t help it; people like Louis Tomlinson don’t go after boys like Harry Styles, with no money or life experience. And it’s even more sickening to think that all Louis has to do is bite his lip and rock back and forth on his dainty feet so cutely and look up through thick, dark brown lashes, for girls to be rolling over for him, to be kneeling down for him, and Harry’s already so infatuated. All Louis had to do was smile at him for point three seconds, and he’s _gone_.

“I would say,” Harry starts slowly, anger filling him up inside gently, anger at Perrie for being right, anger at himself for letting a short meeting define what he thinks he knows about some random man. “I would say that I’m not the kind of boy who would get down on my knees for someone like you, for some dickhead like you.”

Louis looks taken aback for a couple short seconds, before his lips twitch into a tiny smile, “A dickhead? I’d like to think I’ve been nothing but nice to you, Harry.” He watches him carefully, obviously pleased by Harry’s reaction.

“Maybe a bit too nice, don’t you say?”

“Sorry? I thought everyone, pretty boys like you included, liked to be treated nicely.”

“I’m not like most boys. I’m sorry you think that way.”

Louis just stares at him through his dark lenses, and Harry can feel the fire burning beneath his skin. Just like last night, identical to last night’s feeling. Louis smiles again, “I don’t know how to think, not exactly, considering I just met you last night.”

“That’s exactly right,” Harry nods affirmably. It _is_ exactly right; they did just meet last night, and is _meet_ even the right term for it? Why, oh why, is Harry so infatuated with the man standing in front of him wearing an haughty smile? Why does he have to be in like with a man his closest friend says is a womanizer?

“Are you quite finished?” Louis rolls his eyes and folds his hands in front of him.

Harry’s mouth falls open. _Rude_. “Alright, again thank you for this.” He waves the wallet around with a hand, “But I’ve got to get back to my friend, or she’ll be looking like Larry the Lobster for her first day back. So, thanks,” he mumbles. He makes to go walk back to Perrie, but then there’s a firm hand grabbing his waist and he’s being spun back around. He’s crashed gently on Louis’ chest for a few seconds before he remembers what a _dick_ he’s being, and he pries himself off.

“Am I being a dickhead now, Harry?” Louis asks with a wide beam. “Are you irritated?”

(Harry shouldn’t find his white, small sharp teeth so endearing, _but_.)

“Incredibly,” Harry replies, and as much as he wants to growl it out like the fierce lion that he is, it comes out small and meek, like a little, soft mouse.

“Am I making you angry?” Louis starts to circle Harry, walking around like a predator about to pounce on its’ prey. Louis looks at Harry when the younger boy doesn’t answer, surely relishing the red of his face. “Anger is a sign of true passion, is what they say. Imagine what we could create together, Harry.”

Harry pulls away from Louis’ touch. “What are you thinking? Do you—do you honestly think, what, that I’m just gonna fuck you, is that it? I don’t even know you!”

Louis’ smile doesn’t falter, in fact, much to Harry’s astonishment, it grows wider. “Perfect—no strings attached, even better. Okay,” Louis breathes out, unable to meet his eyes. “Look, it’s obvious you’re incredibly good-looking, but I don’t want to play around anymore—I just want one good fuck, okay, just _one_ , and then we can go about our separate business.”

He should’ve just stopped talking right after he called Harry good-looking, he really, really should’ve stopped. Of course he didn’t miss the part where he got called good-looking by Louis Tomlinson, no; that small, teeny part is going in a file somewhere in his brain, but other then that—what an _asshole_! He’s stunned. Harry doesn’t know what to say, his brain is a mess, thoughts scattered everywhere.

It’s just that—well, the other night, when he gently cleaned the blood from his injury and wrapped a bandage around his head, it was so _sweet._ It was so incredibly gentle, considering Louis didn’t have to do that, fuck, Zayn could’ve done it. And in the office, before Harry left, he knows they had a moment, they had a _Spark_. And now—now it all feels like one big lie, and he’s so incredibly disappointed in himself for believing those acts of kindness were just, in fact, kindness, and that Louis didn’t have a hidden schedule.

“Are you legit—are you serious?” Harry asks with wide eyes. “Is this how you normally get someone to go back home with you?”

“No, actually,” Louis frowns. Instead of his usually, cocky grin, there’s an aggravated grimace. “We should’ve already been in my car back to my place, but you’re so frustrating.” His eyebrows furrow and Harry doesn’t want to find it cute. “I’ve never met anyone like you before, Harry Styles. A puzzle I need to work on.”

Harry stares back at Louis through his shades and he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. It all just happened so fast—this morning he was Googling the correct shade of blue for this man’s eyes and now he doesn’t know how to get at Harry more strongly, it’s not possible, he feels it in every fiber of his body.

“Thank you for bringing me back my wallet,” Harry breathes out and nods at him once more, before walking around him and onto the sand, where an alert Perrie is watching with narrowed eyes. He can feel Louis’ eyes on him during his short walk, and if he sways his hips a bit more than usual, no one has to know. He wants him to get a good look at his pert, little ass in his tight, polka-dot shorts—it’ll be the last time he’ll ever get to see it. 


	5. Men and Brothers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not changing much :/ Making significant changes would be making changes to the plot itself, and there's a reason why I chose this plot in the first place. 
> 
> Disclaimer: Not mine plot, not my characters, not my anything. Don't own it or One Direction.

 

* * *

 

 

_"Brotherhood is the very price and condition of man's survival." - Carlos P. Romulo_

 

He can’t stop tapping his fountain pen against the desktop. It’s a rhythmic _tap tap tap_ against the wood that echoes through his spacey office, constant like the steady beat of his heart, and he can’t stop it. He needs to do something with his hands, needs to keep himself busy somehow, otherwise his mind wanders and it goes to a dangerous place filled with long curls and pouty, pink lips, and it’s extraordinarily risky. The pen tapping is the only thing he’s been able to do in the last couple of hours, unable to find anything productive to fill his time, not that he doesn’t have shit to do, because he always does.

He’s been like this for the last week or so, unable to make his body and brain connect like they’ve flawlessly done before. There’s work stacked high on a corner of his desk and his laptop has now gone black again. The only prolific thing he’s done all day is roll a jay, and then he couldn’t even find it in himself to light it up. He’s worthless, pathetic, and he completely blames Harry Styles for it, of course. Who else?

  _What the hell is wrong with Harry Styles?_

Louis’ advances have always worked—a fool-proof method, a highway to pleasure without commitment. It never takes long, five minutes tops, even Big Dick crumbled with just a glance, but he shouldn’t go comparing someone like Big Dick to Harry Styles, they’re not comparable; Harry’s a homerun, a hit out of the park and the former is just strike after strike. Or something, Louis doesn’t know shit about baseball.

The point is, Louis’ system is supposed to be infallible, and it _has_ been since he was a fucking teenager, and then this—this boy-man-person comes along, with his creamy skin and long curls and even longer legs and a goddamned little flower earring, and he screws it all up. He had gotten it down to a pat, to a very precise and automatic routine, but Harry somehow shattered it all to pieces with his stubborn ways and tiny polka-dot shorts.

_Maybe he’s not gay_ , Louis wonders to himself, but he knows that’s not true. He shouldn’t just make assumptions about someone’s sexuality, but there’s no way he misinterpreted the signs—Harry was _definitely_ into him, it was exceedingly obvious. Louis is just—he’s just so _exasperated_ by the boy and by the situation itself, it’s getting on his nerves. As a man who is a big fan of playing games and taking on self-indulgent challenges, Harry should’ve been effortless, should’ve been an easy kill, he should’ve already been scratched off the mental list in Louis’ mind.

Then what’s the problem? Why _isn’t_ Harry off the list? Why didn’t he want to go back Louis’ place?  He’s been going over every detail that happened on Sunday, trying to find out where exactly he went wrong, which step he didn’t execute correctly, but he’s coming up with nothing. Nada. He played his roll so well, almost good enough to make wish he had been an actor; surely his shelves would be filled with Oscars by now if he had—he did everything perfectly, so clearly the problem is just Harry. What else?

He doesn’t sleep much, but Sunday night sleep doesn't come to him in short amounts, either, just so incredibly restless over the whole odd situation. Harry was quickly becoming a pest to Louis, a bug trying to burrow itself underneath his skin, a parasite eating away at him. He was just becoming a serious problem, distracting Louis from his job so that even the gun range wasn’t enough to bring him back to reality.

By Tuesday night, Harry was like a fog quickly thickening in Louis’ mind, clouding his judgment, making him stumble and stutter over the most simplest of things, and the latter couldn’t find out what was wrong with him. By Thursday night, Louis had tried to justifiably fuck the boy out of his mind, calling several boys in his hidden, tiny black book, but not one of the fine models or aspiring actors helped, and come Friday morning he had completely given up. On Friday night, drunk off some imported Mexican tequila, Harry still occupied his mind, green eyes flashing behind Louis’ eyelids every time he tried to close his eyes.

And now, on Saturday, his day off, he still can’t get any rest. He feels pathetic, repeatedly tapping away at a fancy, golden pen, trying to figure out a boy he’s only met twice, trying to figure out why he was so _incredulously_ —so _disbelievingly_ _rejected_ like that. He doesn’t believe he has ever worked so hard for a fuck before, never. And he’s only seen the guy twice, both times lasting less than five minutes!

It’s just—Harry. _Harry, Harry, Harry._

Louis scoffs, who names their kid Harry nowadays? It has to be short for Harold, which is probably the most old-fashioned name he’s ever heard on a twenty-one year old. Maybe he was named after an old family member, like Louis was.

Louis _could_ go after Harry, pursue him once more, but that’s against everything he works for, against his moral code. He doesn’t chase anyone, they chase after him. If he’s being honest, he half expected (half-hoped) that the boy would call by Monday night, but something told him not to get too excited for the possibility, something telling him that Harry kinda didn’t want to see him. Maybe the way the latter stormed off, leaving Louis on the sidewalk looking like an idiot? _God_ , he stepped in sand, _sand of all things_ , in his best church shoes, the least Harry could do is call.

The tapping becomes more furious, harder on the tough wood, thuds sounding off loudly throughout the room. “He’s got to be straight,” Louis mutters, dropping his head onto the desk in defeat. His words are muffled by the surface, “There’s no other reason...” He shoots up in shock, blue eyes agape in fright. “Is it me? Is there something wrong with _me_? Have I lost my touch?”

The self-doubt leaves his mind almost as quickly as it enters and in the lonely room, he bursts out into laughter. _Of course_ it’s not him; he’s just being preposterous now, Harry Styles messing about with his brain. He has to see him again, just has to, just to make sure he’s not going completely off the rails, just to try again. He threw in the perfect hook, so why didn’t Harry take the bait?

To make matters worse, there’s an issue with Zayn, who still hasn’t given up on finding love after Liam, and is dead set that Harry is _the one_. The older man can’t seem to stop talking about Harry and his curls and how stunning he looked that night at the club a week ago, and all of it just makes Louis’ fingers twitch with anxiety and possessiveness. He’s all for his brother to find someone to love and cherish and all that great bullshit, but—but just not with _Harry_.

As brothers, they’ve never fought over anything. They never had to, with enough money flowing into the family that each child got toys of their own, no need to share anything, but even as teens and young adults, they never fought over petty things like men, especially considering Louis didn’t even _know_ Zayn was into men until he saw him on his knees for Liam, and he also never said anything when Louis came out, either. But now, Zayn and Liam are no longer together, and Zayn keeps talking about Harry with big, glazed-over hazel eyes and Liam said something about going ring-shopping—it’s _serious_ now and that makes his blood transform into lava, something Louis has never felt before, and he doesn’t know what he would do to sink his teeth into the thick curves of Harry’s thighs before Zayn, to mark what’s his.

Now, marking his territory and putting his name on everything that belongs to him—now it’s necessary, even when it comes to the closest thing he has to a best friend. Louis doesn’t care what Zayn does with Harry after he’s done, he just needs to be the first one, needs to win this silent test. Unlike him, his brother isn’t tech-savvy, doesn’t have the basic skills to hack something as simple as the Northwestern University registry to find a number. He got a tiny nudge of reprieve when Zayn asked about the girl who accompanied Harry to the club, but besides the crazy thing with the taser and trying to ignore the dagger she was glaring into his back, he doesn’t remember much about her.

No one knows about the beach incident besides him, and he’s not enough of an idiot to tell anyone and have word travel back to his questioning brother. The man would pester him to death, no thank you. And besides, Zayn would talk and soon no one would let Louis forget how badly he got rejected, how he struck out with Harry. Is that what happened then—did he strike out?

Before he has time to continue his over thinking and bite what little of his nails are left, the office phone rings, jerking him into the air from his seat. “Thank God,” he blows a gust of air out, thankful for something to distract him from his redundant thoughts. He wipes the sweat from his hands on his dark jeans, grimacing at his own thoughtlessness, knowing that he’ll have to change as soon as he gets off the phone. “Tomlinson.”

_“Tomlinson?”_ Johannah laughs lightly from the other end. “ _You stole my greeting, you thief._ ”

“Oh, Ma,” Louis breathes out, quickly reaching out a hand and typing obnoxiously at his laptop, hoping the sounds don’t betray him and reveal that he’s been sitting at his desk, doing absolutely nothing save thinking about a _boy_ , of all things. “Can I help you with something?”

_“Can’t I just call my Bambino without needing something? Maybe I just wanted to check up on my boy.”_

Louis refrains from rolling his eyes; he’s positive his mother will see him, or fucking _hear_ the roll of his eyeballs, and threaten to smack him the next time she sees him. His mother never makes calls for just the sake of it. “Sure, Ma, whatever you say.”

“ _Tempo al tempo, Louis,_ ” Johannah replies quietly. “ _How’ve you been? Your brothers tell me you seem a bit off, distracted. Is there something you want to share with me?_ ”

“No, nothing to say—I’ve been caught up in some work here at the penthouse, I’ve been thinking about investing in an independent music label, get them up and going. They have potential.”

It’s quiet for a few beats until Johannah speaks up again, “ _That’s something the three of you were always so passionate about—your music. You know, I always wanted you to pursue that, your singing, form that little band Liam was always trying to push you and Zayn into joining. Of course, you’ve always been as stubborn as a mule with an ego bigger than your size, and Zayn, well—he never had a problem doing as Liam pleased._ ” Johannah chuckles and Louis holds his breath.

His mother’s voice is uncharacteristically soft when she speaks again. “ _Quando si d_ _á_ _a qualcuno tutto il tuo cuore e lui lo vuole, non si pu_ _ò_ _prendere indietro. E ‘andato per sempre._ ”

“Ma...” Louis is in complete shock. No, he never pegged his mother as ignorant, not one to turn the other way at something she didn’t like, but this was—this could change everything, if she knows what Louis thinks she knows, then. “Ma, what are you sa—“

“ _I do have some business to talk to you about, in fact. You were right,_ ” Johannah cuts him of, tone completely changed into that hard, no-nonsense twinge that always comes with industry, Liam and Zayn in the past. “ _We have a big problem with the Libyan syndicate._ _Long story short, Shaer completely played with us. Liam will be calling you soon to fill you in._ ”

“What?” Louis can’t say he’s surprised. “I told him to keep his trap shut or he would pay the consequences.”

“ _My shipment, Bambino_ ,” she says in her usual cool fury, but he doesn’t miss the small hint of terror lying in her layers. “ _He’s back in the States, but my shipment was caught trying to get into the country. The whole thing exploded into this big deal and no one is being quiet about it, since you know, it’s_ us _. He got caught with my guns, and I need them back._ ”

Louis like to pride himself when it comes to his family—the Tomlinson’s are smart, legacies and generations where they’ve fixed their imperfections, and smuggling contraband and illegal trade into one of the most paranoid, most secure countries in the world isn’t necessarily an easy task, but the Tomlinson’s don’t believe in impossible. Difficult, yes, but impossible is out of the question. Security south of the country through land isn’t even worth stressing over, but when it’s coming in from an ocean, on water, it can get nerve wrecking, especially when dealing with such big items like guns.

Drugs are easy: You can hide them in cans of baby formula or cut open fruit, like pineapples and watermelon, and hot glue it back together. Over the years, Johannah Tomlinson, the cunning and sly woman she is, has perfected the Tomlinson hide and trade method, so perfectly done that even Louis doesn’t know the logistics of it all. No Tomlinson has been caught with contraband or an illegal weapon in decades.

“What do you need me to do?”

“ _No one knows where the guns are located, but they’re sitting in some warehouse, I think owned by the government. Again, Liam will inform you better. Louis, those damn guns are mine_ ,” she curses, “ _and someone has to pay for them. I have to send them over to the Japanese soon._ ”

“Alright, Ma, don’t worry,” Louis reassures her. “Where is Shaer now?”

His mother scoffs in disbelief. It’s not everyday someone tries to fuck over Johannah Tomlinson. “ _That bastard is sitting nice and pretty in his Lincoln Park townhouse. He had the audacity to call me and apologize!_ Apologize _—like that’s going to solve anything, can you believe the nerve of that man? I don’t care for an apology that came out of his ass; I want my money and my guns._ ”

Louis groans in despair. “We have to do this tonight, then, on Saturday?”

“ _Yes,_ ” his mother snaps. _“Is there a problem, Louis? Do you have something much more important to do?_ ”

_Yes!_ He has to waste yet another night stressing over that stupid Harry boy and his thighs. “No,” he says instead, “you’ll have your stuff by tonight, Ma.”

“ _Great_ ,” Johannah’s voice is automatically calmer and smoother. “ _Now, tell your brothers that I want to see them at dinner. You’re more than welcomed to come, bambino, I just know you like to go out on the weekends. Plus, you’ve only denied your presence every single time since you turned sixteen, so I guess—_ “

“Ma—“

“— _that it wouldn’t be a problem. Although, there are some little ones who would love to see you…_ ”

Louis sighs, knowing that it’s been quite some time since he spent quality time with his younger sisters. “I’ll be there, alright?” The only response he gets is a dial tone, which can now be on par with _alright, goodbye, thank you for all the work you do_ , probably. It seldom happens, but Louis really would rather just stay in bed all day, Netflix playing on the television, maybe order some Chinese from his favorite place on North Broadway, than go out and handle business.

He makes a quick phone call to Zayn, who answers groggily, and he knows his brother is still slumbering in bed with a sick hangover. He’s mildly impressed with Liam, who mentions he has the list of the gun inventory, already has the situation covered with a plan on what they need to do. Of course, the illusion shatters when the conversation somehow turns to Sophia and how she can’t do _this thing_ with her tongue, not as well as Zayn, anyway.

He hangs up, shuts down the laptop, and makes sure to leave the office nice and neat, with everything in its place. He doesn’t need the image of a crooked paper nagging his brain for the rest of the night while he goes on a business run. He goes down the stairs two at a time to the grand kitchen, where he gorges on two granola bars, half a pear, and drinks some water, all while thinking about some delicious seafood and vegetables with noodles. He throws a jacket over his shoulder and locks up behind him.

The elevator doors open with a ding on the twenty-third floor, and Zayn saunters in with a lazy smile. His hair is flat against his forehead and he’s got violet shades underneath his eyes, dressed down in torn skinny jeans and sturdy, black combat boots. “You ready for today?” he asks, shuffling in and pressing the button for a few floors below them, leaning back against the clear glass window of the elevator.

Louis pulls his jacket aside to give a glimpse of his weapon, one of his favorites, a M1911. It’s a rather iconic pistol, one that has never let him down in the worst of situations—one of the most timeless pieces of machinery ever produced. Louis really just likes the gold bullets, too, makes him feel fancy. “Are _you_ ready? Not distracted by—anything?”

“Nah,” Zayn says, eyes turning to stare out the glass, at the sprawling city they call home. “’M good, even brought my UZI.” He lifts up his black tee, revealing tan skin and black ink, and one beautiful, small, powerful gun tucked into his waistband. Louis has a larger version at home, in gold, of course. “I’m going all out as Tony Montana,” Zayn laughs.

“Just missing your pastel suits,” Louis grins. It’s quiet for a few beats, the city blurring vertically, as they make their way further down the building to Liam’s. Liam used to live up high with them, but after a rather unfortunate event where the man got incredibly drunk and twisted on coke, and had decided to go out further than the building’s barriers and stand on the edge, Johannah flipped out and demanded he live on the third floor, or move back home. There’s nothing worse than a twenty-six year old man living with his mother and teenage sisters.

“So what’d you do last night?” Louis tries for some conversation. He’s tired and hungry and just wants to be back in bed watching Gogglebox.

Zayn shrugs, “Was just up in the studio, did some graffiti thing for Fizzy’s bedroom that she wanted, came back home this mornin’. Nothing much.”

He doesn’t want to ask, but he has to, just has to. He always thought he had better self-control, or fuck, self-awareness, but it’s pathetic now, he’s hit rock bottom, so why not just ask? “Uh, have you found out anything more about Harry?”

“No,” Zayn purses his lips in distaste. “He’s a sly little thing, hiding from me. No worries, I’ll find him.”

More like, lots of worries. Louis gnaws at the skin of his thumb, a disgusting habit that he’s had since he was a small child, trying to bite away at the nerves and small bouts of anxiety that start to creep up. He doesn’t want to know what thoughts are coursing through Zayn’s head, or what the cause of that sneaky, little smirk on his face is, but he has no doubt they’re both related to Harry Styles. The boy doesn’t belong to Zayn and Louis wants to make that known desperately, but he knows he’ll come off too eager, and what if that makes Zayn work harder to find Harry? Zayn and Liam would never let it go if they find out that _Louis_ is _chasing_ after someone.

The elevator doors ding open as they get to Liam’s hallway, and the latter is leaning against the opposite wall, with an iPad glued to his hands. He’s abnormally dressed, clad in a three piece black suit, his black tie set nice and straight, and even his beard has been trimmed down some. “Don’t talk,” he says, eyes focused on the screen as he shuffles into the small space in his polished, black dress shoes, “’m working.”

“You look like you’re going to a wedding or something,” Louis huffs a laugh, ignoring his brother’s request. “What’s going on? You getting married or something?” he jokes.

But it’s not funny when Liam only shifts awkwardly on his feet and looks down at the carpet with a solemn expression, ignoring their eyes, and Zayn’s soft laughter cuts off immediately. There’s only a quiet gasp, and everything is quiet except for the low humming of the elevator. It’s quiet, like there’s a bubble surrounding them filled with tension, until they reach the garage and make their way to their expansive collection of cars.

“So,” Louis leans against the trunk of Zayn’s Bentley. “What do we need? What’s the plan?”

Liam just shrugs. “Don’t worry ‘bout it, I’ll tell you once we get there.”

“Oh, that’s helpful,” Louis scowls.

“I think we should your Range, Lou, we might be coming back with a lot of contraband, and I know some of Ma’s stuff includes AK-47’s and shit like that,” Zayn says with haste, nodding over to the black SUV. Louis’ surprised he’s still speaking, that he hasn’t completely shut down or left by now to be alone.

“I don’t really drive it much in the city,” Louis says, frowning in dislike when his oldest brother pushes past him and jumps into the driver’s seat. He goes around the car to open the door of the passenger seat, but Zayn snatches the back of his jacket, and with a strength not shown in his thin arms, he pulls him into the back seat with him. He goes to open his mouth and say something smart, but his brother is looking at him with pleading eyes and a pink pout, so he just nods, understanding. He likes Zayn, but his mother’s words repeat themselves.

_Quando si d_ _á_ _a qualcuno tutto il tuo cuore e lui lo vuole, non si pu_ _ò_ _prendere indietro. E ‘andato per sempre_

Liam pulls out of the parking space manically; whipping the vehicle around like it’s a simple Hot Wheels toy. Louis clutches at the leather besides him and starts murmuring the Holy Rosary, “ _Apostles Creed Io credo in Dio, Padre onnipotente…_ ” Insurance studies often show that women are the worst drivers, but they clearly have not ridden in a car with Liam Tomlinson.

“I do actually want to live to see tomorrow, you know,” Louis shouts from the backseat when Liam makes a sharp turn, and Zayn and him go crashing into the left door and onto one another. “Some of us _do_ value our lives, Liam!” He speaks up again when Liam’s hitting a hundred on the meter.

Liam only shrugs his stiff shoulders, looking at him through the rearview mirror. “Just preparing you for what might go down today at Shaer’s, Lou. Don’t be such a wuss.”

Eric Shaer is the same age as Louis Tomlinson, one of the many rivals he’s had since he was a teenager growing up in the business, and only half as strong. He’s from a rich Libyan family that goes back decades to reach the Italo-Turkish War, or _Guerra di Libia_ , as Louis knows it, where Italy invaded Libya which was then Turkish colonies. It doesn’t help the rivalry between the two families, when Shaer claims it’s yet another reason to hate the Tomlinson's, even if he, himself, isn’t a Libyan Turk, and actually has Italian blood pumping in his heart.

The male is an American-born half-Libyan, half-Italian, but no one ever speaks about the Italian part, they don’t dare to, or otherwise they’ll get a gun pointed to their heads. His mother was an Italian soap opera star who charmed Shaer’s young father for one night, yet she’s not acknowledged in the business, hardly anyone dare speaks of her since she doesn’t belong, she’s an _outsider_ , as they like to say; they never married and she isn’t Libyan. It’s that way with all mob families, a tradition that goes back centuries—bloodlines have to be viable, the blood has to be pure and connected to their roots, the old country, as far as marriages go.

As a Tomlinson, if you ever want to get serious when it comes to dating someone, you do a background check. You research your partner’s ancestry, and if there’s not any Italian heritage, you don’t continue to bother with them. That’s the rule, and there are no exceptions to that one. Maybe it’s a good thing that Sophia Smith’s great-great grandparents are Italian, otherwise Liam would’ve had to find himself another girlfriend. Looking at Zayn, Louis thinks that maybe it’s not such a great thing.

The thing about Eric Shaer is that he doesn’t have anyone to pull the reigns on him. He didn’t have a mother to guide him through anything, and his predecessor, his father, had let the man walk all over him, let him over-rule him without any dignity. Shaer is young, a complete playboy at best, and Louis can’t lie and say they never partied together, or shared a bill when snorting lines, but that’s it—he always prefers to keep his distance from the unpredictable man, finding him too untamable, something that irks Louis to no end, that makes him want to put a bullet through his head, among other reasons, of course. He’s had many chances to kill the Libyan, but that would only cause a war between the two families and would torpedo the whole city, something he’d rather avoid.

“Do you think he’ll be stable?” Zayn nudges him with his elbow, drawing Louis out of his thoughts and back into the car. “He’s got insane mood swings, rather bi-polar tendicies.”

It takes Louis a few seconds to realize that his brother is taking about the man who’s been plaguing his mind for most of the car ride. “Shaer? We’ve had good times, though, haven’t we? Shaer and us?”

Zayn rolls his eyes, “If you call playing Russian Roulette _fun_ , then sure. Oi, don’t look at me like that, Lou! He was really set on playing, I thought he was just going to fill up the cylinder and shoot just for shits and giggles.”

“Nah,” Louis laughs, patting Zayn’s warm cheek. “You know you’re his favorite, Arab backgrounds and all that. _You_ didn’t invade his country in 1911, like I did.”

Zayn slaps his hand away and runs his fingers through his thick hair. “Just want to make it home in one piece, without a bullet-shaped hole in my skull, thank you. Plus, Stefano and Ma are making Braciola for dinner. Daisy said she heard rumors of Sicilian Cannoli for dessert.”

“You’ll be fine,” Liam speaks up for the first time since getting into the car, waving him off like Shaer isn’t actually a threat to their lives. “I won’t let anyone hurt you,” he turns around and promises Zayn, who can only look down at his hands silently.

“Really, man,” Louis mumbles, sending Liam a glare through the mirror once he turns back around. “Wait—wait this one is it.” Liam stops the Range Rover across the street from a five story, cream-colored brick townhouse with arched windows and neatly-trimmed bushes. “Yeah, this one is it,” Louis affirms, shrugging of his jacket. They’ve been here once before, at some party when Shaer first moved to Chicago years ago.

Liam turns the car off and the trio jump out of the car, sizing up the house and the obvious bodyguard at the front gate dressed head to toe in black.

“Ugh,” Zayn shudders, a chill ripping through his body. “I just got _un brivido_. I don’t like this.”

_Un brivido_ , as they call it, is the shiver that runs up and down your spine like little caterpillars; it’s their basic survival instincts telling them to run, to get out of a certain situation, whic might not go as they planned. It’s something that happens to everyone when they’re in an eerie situation or place, but there’s nothing they can do about it now—they’ve been trained to suppress it, to keep going towards the danger: it’s their jobs, what they were born to do. Now, it’s just normal to feel coldness zip up and down their bodies as they put their lives at risk.

 “Just stay alert,” Liam mutters to them as they cross the street with quick feet. “We’re here to get Ma’s shipment, and we’re not leaving until we get it.”

Zayn takes the lead, walking up to the security with his brothers close behind. He’s the only one who speaks Arabic, something Johannah made sure of; she didn’t want the Pakistanian-born to lose sight of where he comes from or forget about his roots. He speaks quickly and effortlessly, a complete professional, and Louis is impressed, even if he doesn’t understand a lick of it.

The security guard at the gate nods stiffly and talks rapidly into his two-way radio, and soon they’re being led into the house by a buff man at the front door. He leads them through the flashy, expansive living room and into a hallway, before pointing them to a tiny elevator. Inside the crowded space, Louis acts like a barrier between his two brothers, sighing at the ridiculousness of the situation. Liam hands him a folded up paper wordlessly, and when Louis looks it over, he notes that it’s the inventory for the shipment. It’s not too much, a couple machine guns, pistols, even some explosives, but there’s no possible way to bring all of it in the Range Rover, so there’s no doubt in his mind that a shipment will have to be made to the Tomlinson Estate.

“This is going to be fun,” Louis’ voice is slick with sarcasm as the door dings open and they’re pulled out and frisked by Shaer’s men, pushing them against the walls with their legs spread apart and palms against the bricks. It’s almost as bad as the pat downs given by the TSA, but it’s not as bad as some of the things Zayn has had to go through in airports for the color of his skin and ethnic looks.

“Show me your weapons,” a deep voice calls out from behind him and Louis stands where he is and pulls the short pockets of his dark jeans inside out, showing he didn’t have anything but his wallet and cell. He then lifts up his tee to flash the gun tucked nicely into his belt. The man eyes him skeptically with his dark eyes. “You sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Louis snaps. “Now if you don’t mind.” He pushes past the guard with cold eyes, begging him to do something, to put just a slight hand on him. Everyone always underestimates Louis Tomlinson because of his size, his petite, curvy structure that always stands out in a sea of tall, built mobsters, but people quickly learn that he is a dog that no only barks, but throws a mean bite, too.

Liam and Zayn are quietly waiting for him at the end of the hallway, and he only takes a deep breath before knocking loudly on the door. The walls and windows shake as loud dubstep echoes through the whole floor, rattling the Picaso hung on the wall. “It’s three in the afternoon, and he’s already fucked.”

“Let’s just pray he isn’t completely off the rails, we need to negotiate with a clear mind here, not with someone out in space,” Liam mutters. “Let’s just get what we need and leave.”

The door is flung open by yet another bulky guard and the man steps aside quietly to let him in. Louis can only wonder what it’s like to work for Shaer, and as he enters the dim, smoke-filled room thumping even harder with the screaming music, he knows it can’t be very pleasant. It looks, and smells, like the inside of a gritty club in Riverdale, but that’s how the man chooses to live his life, careless and drunk. Nude Arabian women are sat at the feet of Eric Shaer, welcoming them in their sweet voices, but Louis can only cringe at the sight.

“Ah!” Shaer exclaims with a smile, waving them in with a drink in his hands. “Come in, boys, come in. I was just asking my girls when the Tomlinson’s were going to show up, wasn’t I?”

Louis isn’t impressed. “Shaer,” he nods at him.

“Oh, Tomlinson, what’s the deal, huh? Who got their dick stuck up your ass?” Shaer laughs and points to the chairs besides a table. “Come, sit, have a drink. Let’s catch up.”

“We’re not here to _catch up_ ,” Liam mocks, “We’re here for Johannah’s shipments, the ones that are currently confined, thanks to you and your men.”

“ _What_?” Shaer gapes, blinking his eyes repeatedly. For someone who has the most control when it comes to the Asian mobs, the man can’t lie to save his life. “I’m quiet certain I sent those guns a couple days ago. Didn’t I, girls?” The dark haired women all giggle and nod, pawing at him with their long nails.

 “Funny that, are we talking about the guns that we never received?”

“That’s not my fault, Louis.”

“It doesn’t matter whose fault it is anymore,” Louis tightens his jaw. “You lost our shipment, so you’re going to have to give us some sort of compensation for it.” He’s irate and hungry, and he’s tired of his precious time being wasted by some idiot. There isn’t any time to beat around the bush.

“Ah, the Tomlinson’s,” Shaer sighs and pushes a dark-skinned girl off of his lap and onto the Persian carpet, earning a squeal. “You think you rule the whole world, don’t you?”

“We just want our compensation, Shaer,” says Zayn with an annoyed tone. None of the Tomlinson’s are friendly with Patience, is something that Louis has noted as of late.

“Look, it’s not like it was on purpose, okay? Shit happened.” Shaer plops ice cubes into an empty glass before twisting open a bottle of Johnny Walker and pouring it in. “If the fuckers at customs didn’t feel the need to check every damn thing, you’d have your guns by now.”

Liam backs away from Shaer’s extended hand, just glances down at the drink being offered and looks back up at Shaer with a blank face. “You told us you had people in customs.”

“ _Allah_ ,” he groans, yanking back his arm, letting drops of whiskey soak into the rug. “Something fell through, obviously.”

Zayn shuffles forward, sidestepping Louis to stand in front of him. “We’re not leaving without Johannah’s things,” he glowers at the Libyan man, voice steady and dark, filled with ardor. It shocks Louis to see his brother pull out his gun and point it at Shaer’s chest. Zayn is never the one to instigate anything, and it reminds him of the angry and frightening Zayn he met at the warehouse weeks ago. Liam does this to him, turns him exacerbated and yearning for blood, and it astonishes Louis.

Shaer clicks his tongue and downs the unwanted whiskey in one gulp, gurgling at the burn. “We all know this isn’t going to turn into that. Now, now Zaynie, where’s the love?” He’s not stupid enough to let this turn into a blood scene; a shootout in his townhouse, in a residential area with kids outside on their scooters, would never turn out good for him. He slaps a hand down on Zayn’s shoulder once the gun is lowered, and Zayn is quick to shrug it off. Shaer leans over and says a few words in Arabic, before turning back to the Louis and Liam, clapping his hands. The girls are pushed out of the room and in their place, are two rolling tables covered by white sheets.

The sheets are ripped off to reveal glistening metal, sending Louis’ heart racing. The feeling upon finally seeing the beautiful weapons, it’s like—it’s like having a good round of sex followed by a nice joint, it’s that _great_. He circles the table, running his hand over the smooth, cold surface, quickly going over the list in his mind.

Liam picks up a sniper rifle, one that Louis recalls is a PSG1, a beautiful, long, German machine that has to weigh at least fifteen pounds by the looks of it. Liam shuts one eye and presses his face into the glass of the telescope. “These are the new ones, right? German?”

Shaer nods from his spot back at his chair. “Yes, aren’t they a beauty? It’s 48 inches with a barrel of 25 inches, a decent muzzle velocity of 2,848 feet per second, and a roller-delayed blowback.”

“How many do you have?” Zayn asks from where he’s standing still, watching Shaer with tight eyes.

Shaer shrugs, “Plenty. I have four, but if I’m not mistaken, I owe Johannah five. Nothing I can’t get. I also have other rifles that you maybe interested in. There’s a good, ol’ American Cheytac .408 cal around here somewhere.” He gets up to make another drink, “That’s all I have right now until my next trip back home, so tell Johannah she can wait.”

It takes a nudge at his ribs and a threatening glare from Liam to let go of the tight grip on his gun. He didn’t even realize he had reached for it, but Louis’ not too surprised by his own behavior. He’s pissed off at the Libyan, playing around with his mother’s money like it isn’t completely unacceptable, like the Tomlinson’s would just shrug and pat him on the head for all his hard work. Who the hell does Shaer think he is, and why the fuck does he think it’s okay to mess with Louis’ shit like this?

It’s an hour later when they walk out of Shaer’s townhouse, annoyed and unscathed, with written agreements for the locked-up shipment to arrive at the Tomlinson Estate with no exceptions. He owes them a mighty large sum of money, and even selling his organs on the black market wouldn’t cover a fourth of it, and everyone who was in that room, signing the documents knows that if they have to come back one more time, they’ll leave with Shaer’s small dick in a plastic bag. Johannah Tomlinson doesn’t fuck around, she expects the best from her associates, but a lot of them laugh off her threats because she’s a woman. Of course, it stops being funny when their bodies are at the pit of Lake Michigan, and if Louis cared enough, he’d fear for Shaer’s life.

“I’m driving,” he tells Liam, who only rolls his eyes and hands over the keys. Zayn jumps into the passenger seat quickly. When they’re stuck in traffic a half hour later heading upstate to the estate, he speaks again. “That wasn’t so bad.”

“Only because he was high as a kite,” Zayn mumbles, leaning his head against the window.

“Zayn,” Liam asks, scooting forward until his chin rests on top of Zayn’s seat. “What did he say to you? Shaer, what did he whisper to you in Urdu?”

“It wasn't Urdu, it was Arabic,” Zayn replies quickly, thumbing through his phone. "It doesn't matter, anyway."

“No, wait, I want to know, too.” Louis looks over at his brother is question.

Zayn groans, “Fine. It’s not—it’s just what he said the last time we saw each other, not a big deal. He just thinks it’d be better for me to be with people… People more like me.”

It’s a few beats of stunned silence before Liam growls. “People like you? What the fuck does that mean? Why didn’t you tell me the first time he said this?”

“Is he trying to steal you away from us?” Louis asks with a grimace, “Does he think just because you speak—“

“It doesn’t _mean_ anything.” Zayn rolls his eyes and turns in his seat to face them, leg tucked underneath him. “He just thinks it’d be beneficial for me to be with people more like myself, and you know, people of Islam. Like, reconnect with my roots.”

“I know you’re studying Islam, and you’re really into it, but the family—Ma would be crushed if you stopped going to mass with us on Sunday, or if you left the family to go with Shaer and his organization. You know that Ma feels bad about it all, but we had to get you out of Pakistan at that time, and I mean, you’re not even Libyan and don’t they have a rule that you ne—“

“ _Liam._ ” Zayn laughs and reaches up to press a thumb at the wrinkle in between the older man’s eyebrows. “I’m not leaving the family, alright, I promise? Like, yeah, I love learning about Islam and South Asia and everything, but I’m still a Tomlinson, yeah? I’ll always be a Tomlinson.”

Liam huffs and pulls back, leaning against his seat. He crosses his arms in defiance and pouts. “I still don’t like it, I don’t trust him as far as I can throw that son of a bitch. He _knows_ Zayn is valuable to m—us, and he’s fucking mental if he thinks he’s going to get a damn finger on you.”

“Liam,” Zayn sighs.

In the driver’s seat, Louis blocks out the rest of their conversation. It’s too disgustingly sweet, with the words _promise_ and _forever_ thrown around, and it’s just gross. They’re not even together anymore, yet Liam’s promising to never let him go and Zayn’s promising that he’s never going to go. How can they say that when Liam is dressed up in a Burberry suit and might get down on one knee later to ask Sophia to be apart of the family for the rest of their lives, and Zayn gets so outlandishly wasted that he loses sight of himself?

It’s something Louis doesn’t understand. At a stoplight, he turns to Zayn, but his brother is still staring at Liam, and the phone call with his mother hours earlier replays in his head. Liam is going to start a new life with a decent woman, and Zayn? What’s going to become of Zayn?

He turns around, fingers clenching the steering wheel tightly. The traffic is horrid, people going and coming everywhere, trying to enjoy what may be the last pleasant weekend before the winds attack at everything they see. The SUV rolls to a stop at another red light and he turns his head out the window, a sign in front of an American Apparel catching his eyes. He squints at the mannequin, sporting a pair of short, blue polka-dotted swim trunks.

_Harry_.

Two hours had passed without the beautiful, long-legged boy popping up in Louis’ mind, yet a mannequin wearing the same shorts he had brings it all back. He can push the boy out of his head easily, he can if he just focuses on something like he had back at Shaer’s, but it’s a lot easier, and maybe somewhat astonishing, how quickly Harry-centric thoughts come flying back. He never truly left Louis, always came back like a pest, a mosquito, or a damn parasite, crawling underneath his skin.

Where is the real Louis? The Louis who just loves to have fun and a good fuck, the one who can’t be bothered by feelings and emotions, much less commitment? What happened to the Louis who would cringe at running into someone he had fucked before, and where is he when he’s thinking about Harry fucking Styles at three in the morning with a hand wrapped around his dick?

When he pulls up to the Tomlinson gates, he thinks about his mother, Johannah, who’s on her third husband, whose earlier husbands all got killed one way or another, who always held her head up. His mother would frown upon Louis’ thoughts if she could hear them, and although Johannah Tomlinson is a rock on the outside and completely soft on the inside, she would never approve of Louis wasting his time and energy over Harry, over a man. It’s not fair, not one bit, because all she does is purse her lips and shake her head in disappointment when Zayn is on the front of a gossip magazine, stumbling out of a club with a man attached to his side, and Louis—Louis can’t have _that,_ and he understands: he’s going to rule the Mafia one day, and a ruler can’t be a faggot.

He gets it, he truly does, but it still hurts. It still hurts that Zayn can get away with it because he’s not the one in charge, because the Russians or the strict, Catholic Mexicans don’t care enough to off him. It’s not fair that his life is in danger because of whom Louis is attracted to, but he’s learned a very important lesson at a young age: _Life isn’t fair_.

But for now, Louis just wants sex. He just wants sex, and he wants it with Harry. He shouldn’t even bother with thoughts like that, about the Russians and, _ha ha_ , coming out, if he’s never going to truly make an effort with a man. Why make an effort if at the end of the day, Louis’ just going to throw Harry out.

When he throws his key to the patient valet, his stomach churns at his own words. _Throw Harry out_? Throw him away? It sounds like Harry is just a piece of shit, garbage, Thai leftovers that have gone bad and need to be put in the waste chute. Harry’s not _trash_ , Harry is—Harry is splendor and awkward and rare beauty all wrapped up with a big, red bow on top. And, plus, if he _throws_ him out, someone can easily have him, and Louis can’t stand for that.

 

‘ _When you give someone your whole heart and he doesn't want it, you cannot take it back. It’s gone forever.’_

 


	6. Teasing and Taunting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate boats. 
> 
> Dislcaimer: One Direction isn't mine, and neither are these characters or this plot. Thanks.

* * *

 

_"Lust's passion will be served; it demands, it militates, it tyrannizes." - Marquis De Sade_

 

“Psst! Psst, _hey_ , Harry!”

Harry sighs and hunches over his notebook, staring straight at the blackboard, where his English Literature professor is explaining anachronism to a student. He isn’t one to ignore people, especially considering how much he hates when someone refuses to acknowledge him, but he can’t _help_ it. It’s not that he _wants_ to ignore her, but maybe if she tried talking to him before or after class, he would happily offer a pen to the needing girl. But now it’s _everyday_ that he’s being prodded with a sharp fingernail in the back for a pen during class, and he can’t afford to not pay attention.

 (And hell, pens can get expensive, too.)

“Harry? Do you have a pen—“

“No,” Harry turns around with a tight smile, “No, sorry, Taylor, I don’t have an extra pen. I really need to continue my notes, so if you don’t mind—“

“Oh, yeah, no, okay!” Taylor widens her blue eyes and nods shyly, maybe even embarrassed from the pink flush rushing to her cheeks. “Yeah, sorry for bothering you, Harry.”

And now Harry feels bad. It’s a curse, being so kind to people, he truly blames his mother for raising such a gentlemen, but he also knows there’s a difference between being kind and being walked all over. “Thanks,” he nods at her and turns back around, refocusing on the professor at the front of the class.

It’s another Monday, and by now he’s used to the slow rush that comes with university, even if it’s only been a week and somehow feels like a whole year. He doesn’t like to think of himself as a quitter, hates giving up on things, and has always pushed through obstacles, but if he had known college was going to be so demanding and difficult, he would’ve stayed home in Cambridge, where at least his mother could bake him cupcakes and pet his hair while he complained. Perrie’s the only person he’s connected with on some level, which is odd, considering he is quite the charmer, but she never plays with his hair, much less eats cupcakes with him.

But he knows why he’s in such a foul mood, why his first year of college has been such a drag, and it’s simply because he’s—well, he’s _frustrated_.  Shades of blue are still running through his mind, haunting his dreams, and it fucking sucks, that’s what it does; it _sucks_. _He sucks_. _He_ still haunts Harry’s dreams. Harry finds it completely appalling, considering he knows what a dick that man is, hello, he was there at the beach, after all—he got treated like a piece of meat, and Harry hates it.

For God’s sake, they only met twice, yet Louis Tomlinson has such a hold on him. Harry almost doesn’t want to close his eyes, afraid of drowning in an ocean of blue. Louis’ always there in his dreams, taunting him, controlling him, _touching him_. He’s woken up with dry jizz in his boxers ever since the incident at the beach and the amount of times he’s had to shuffle down to the laundry during the week is becoming embarrassing.

Maybe the worst part is that they’re just _dreams_ , or perhaps nightmares, and his body is still tense with sexual frustration, his stomach coiled up, asking for a gentle caress, asking for it to become reality. There’s nothing he can do to take away the edge. Even his toys, which make him gasp in release, can’t uncoil his body. He needs Louis and his petite, firm hands and his pink lips and his— _God._

He’s always lived with a nice form of morality, but now, with Louis Tomlinson, all bets are off. If he, for some odd reason, came by tomorrow and wanted to strangle Perrie, hell, Harry would let him, just to feel his lips on him, just to wrap his arms around that toned body, just to get a slight whiff of whatever cologne he uses. It’s like he’s transformed into a puppet and Louis is his puppeteer, and the thought of how much control he has over Harry is frightening. He would do whatever the older man would ask of him and it’s not right. He’s not even sure how he managed to walk away from Louis that day at the beach.

The only form of succor comes with the fact that Harry won’t ever have to see him again. Sure, the man might terrorize his dreams, but, in real life, he won’t be around. There is no way in hell that Harry will step foot in _Fiction_ again, and Louis’ twenty-four years old; it’s not like a real-estate mogul and an eighteen year old college student run in the same circles. They wouldn’t even cross paths again in a city so large like Chicago, and he’s thankful for that.

If he’s completely honest, Louis doesn’t take over his mind until he stumbles back to his dorm after a long day—he’s so incredibly busy with the course load Northwestern has given him, with a demanding curriculum that keeps him on his toes and with a nose buried in textbooks. The university ships the best of the best when it comes to lawyers, doctors, businessmen, etc, and Harry picked it for that same reason. He isn’t going to let Louis, who already has his life planned out and a great job, distract him from being the very best he can be.

“Are you sure you don’t have an extra pen?” A sugary voice mutters into his ear.

He has to thank two years of doing yoga and finding his zen, and mostly just being an alright human being, for not spinning around and throwing the pen at her forehead, but he does yank his bag off the floor rather harshly and he does spin around and slap it onto her desk as kindly as he can. He doesn’t mean to be disrespectful, but he doesn’t like to be taken advantage of—Taylor knows he’s a nice guy who does always carry pens around, but she shouldn’t push it and ask for a pen every time she sees him. It’s rude as hell. “Please stop bothering me.”

It’s not like Harry doesn’t know where Taylor’s trying to get at, he does have eyes and ears, after all, and she does have a rather loud voice, so yes, he knows all about her plan to get him to date her. She also knows how gay he is, too, but just refuses to accept it. They wore the same _Forever 21_ heart earrings once, _c’mon_. It’s pathetic, almost as pathetic as Harry is when it comes to Louis, but not accepting someone’s sexuality because you find them attractive and want to ‘hook up’ is just embarrassing. It’s childish.

“Thanks Harry,” Taylor leans over him, pressing her shoulder into his back, “but I think I found one.” She brushes her arm over him and plops the offensive pen onto his desk before brushing her hand against his back.

Harry winces and shakes his head, trying to catch what the professor is saying. Their first assigned book is one of his favorites, George Orwell’s _1984_. He doesn’t have a problem reading it, and unlike many of his other classmates, he actually looks forward to it, having some parts memorized from his continuous reading of the book. They have time to read in class since the lecture is done earlier than expected and he happily accepts the book that is being handed out.

He can hear Taylor giggle every time he turns the page and he wishes for the class to come to an end so he can hurry back to his dorm and get some sleep. He was awoken by moaning this morning and was nothing but shocked to find out that it was _him_ who was moaning loudly, rutting into his mattress like an animal, sweat sticking to his body, and begging for Louis. He laid in bed afterwards for another hour, and to say he’s dead tired is an understatement. Thankfully, this class is the last one for the day.

“Alright,” the professor clears his throat. “Make sure to finish the first two chapters of _1984_ , you may be having a pop quiz on them this Friday.” He ignores the groans and smiles, “You can leave now.”

Harry starts to gather his things, stuffing his books into his cross-body, the room filled with talk and shuffling papers. He pulls out his iPhone, noticing he has a missed call from Perrie and several Whatsapp’s from his sister.

“Hey, Harry?” Taylor calls from behind him, waiting patiently at the end of his row. She swings her clasped hands back and forth, a large smile stretched on her bright red lips. “Um, do you think we can go over this new book together? I can tell it’s going to be a pain in the ass, and you already started it! You’re just so smart, you know, and I’d love it if you could help me.”

“Sorry, Taylor,” Harry gives her a small, polite smile. “I’m so busy with all my other classes; I hardly have time to eat. Plus, I saw your last quiz, you don’t need any help.”  He swings his bag over his shoulder and pushes past her gently.

“Wait, Harry,” Taylor catches up and grabs his bicep. “You’re right, I don’t need help, I just—I really would like to see you outside of school.”

“Like…Are you asking me out on a date?” Harry deadpans, completely in shock. She knows he’s gay, knows he loves _men_ , and yet here they are. “You do know I’m gay, right?”

“Oh, yeah,” Taylor laughs and waves him off. “It’s not a big deal, don’t you think? We shouldn’t let our sexualities define who we really are!”

“Wait—what?”

Taylor pouts. “Look, I just think we would have a great time! Just _once_ , Harry, just one time.”

“But, but,” Harry stutters. “I’m _gay_. This wouldn’t be a date; I’m not interested in _dat_ ing you.” Does she not understand the concept of dating? Maybe if he was in the closet and desperately needed a beard, then maybe, yes, he would consider it, but even then, probably not. She’s too perky and blonde, and that's definitely not his type in men, either.

“And I’m not! It’s not a big deal, Harry, I don’t know why you keep bringing it up,” Taylor shoots him a weird look. “So, what do you say?”

He’s willing to say yes to a date with the Pope if it gets her to shut up. “Hypothetically speaking, what happens if we go on this date?” Not a date, not a date, not a date.

Taylor squeals and claps her hands. “Then we would have a marvelous time! Dinner and a movie, just us two, enjoying each other’s company, and I don’t know.” She tries to shrug casually, but with her bright smile it’s anything but. “Maybe you can come back to mine for a cup of coffee.”

Harry has to stifle his laughter. A cup of coffee? He’s not dumb, he’s eighteen years old, he has been on dates, and he knows what A Cup of Coffee means. There is no way he’s going to end up at her place, not a chance in hell. “Uh, and if this date-thing goes badly, you won’t ever try to ask me out again, right? If there’s no, I don’t know, _sparks_ , you won’t bother me for pens either, right?”

“Uh, yeah, I guess not.” Taylor frowns and then cheers up. “Does this mean yes? A marvelous time, dinner and a movie, just you and me?”

“How about just a movie?”

“But then we won’t get to talk!”

“Yeah,” Harry nods, “exactly.”

“Well, what about just dinner, then? There’s this Middle Eastern place I love going to, they have great salads. It's on a boat, you don't mind boats, do you?” Taylor grins at him loudly and claps again.

“Um, no, I guess I don't,” Harry sighs. He can’t believe he’s agreeing to this. He hasn’t gone out on a date with a girl since seventh grade and even before that, he knew he wasn’t attracted to them. “Fine, just one date, and if I don’t like it you have to stop bothering me, please.”

“Eek!” Taylor lunges forward and wraps her arms around his neck. “You’re going to like it!” She pulls away and smiles at him before bouncing up the stairs. “I’ll see you later, Harry! You’re going to love it!”

 “I doubt that,” Harry mumbles, following her up the stairs and out of the room. Outside, Perrie is waiting for him on the bench dressed down in a pair of chunky white Docs and a leather jacket. They always go to lunch together after their classes, but unlike Harry, the blonde does have several more lectures throughout the day.

“Hello, dahling,” Perrie greets him in an obnoxious English accent, standing up and hugging him. “You ready to eat? I could eat a whole elephant for lunch, I’m starving. How was class?”

“It’s was alright. Started _1984_ , which is great, I love it.” They walk over to their usual café leisurely, making small chat about all the boring books they’ll have to read throughout the year.

“How was Taylor today? Grope you again?”

“She didn’t gro—!” Harry rolls his eyes. “She was the same as usual, just. I’ve got a date Friday.”

Perrie gasps, grabbing his arms and making him stop in the middle of the sidewalk. “Ooh, who? Is it that hot guy from your Math class who’s always checking you out? Is it him? Where’s he taking you? Oh, my God, Harry, this is so exc—“

“It’s not him, no.”

“What.” Perrie drops his arms and stares at him dumbfounded. “Someone _else_ is into you?”

“Gee, thanks for the confidence boost, Per,” Harry laughs and continues walking. “It’s Taylor, actually.” When he doesn’t hear Perrie’s clunky footsteps behind him, he turns around to see her standing feet away, where he first left her. “Are you coming?”

Her mouth is wide open in shock and it doesn’t shut even as she starts jogging towards him. “Taylor?! Are you—but I thought you were gay? Are you not gay? I got dressed in front of you!”

Harry cackles, a burst of laughter shooting from the pit of his stomach, and he loops his arm around hers. “Per, I’m gay. I just said yes to get her off my back; she said if I didn’t like the date, she would stop pestering me about it. Who knows, it might work.”

“Oh.” Perrie nods, pulling the door to the café open. “Gosh, I was going to be so offended. Here I am, undressing this hotass body in front of you and there you are asking Taylor out. Anyway, what are you going to wear?”

“Dunno, don’t really care,” he shrugs. “I don’t want to dress up, but I don’t want to be rude and dress bad.”

“Like a homeless person, you mean.”

“I _don’t_ dress like a homeless person, I told you.”

“Eh,” she waves a manicured hand at him, “whatever you say. Besides, we need to go shopping soon. Ooh and clubbing! But to a different place, not _Fiction_ again—complete disaster.”

Harry thumbs at the small, almost invisible, tiny pink scar he has on his temple. “I don’t even want to talk about that anymore. Like, ever again.”

“You would if Louis Tomlinson told you to,” she singsongs, bursting into laughter at his reddening face. “’M thinking of changing your screensaver to a sexy picture of him, just to see your face all tomato-like every time you go to open your phone.”

That’s what happens when you tell your friends about having _feelings_ for people—they go and make right fun of you! They eat lunch quickly, since Perrie is late for her class from all the chatting they do and he starts regretting accepting the date when Perrie doesn’t stop talking about all of Taylor’s exes and how they’re all not necessarily straight, which Harry finds extremely peculiar. They also talk about Halloween and the parties and how Harry _really needs a boyfriend by then_.

By the time Friday rolls around, he’s sitting at his usual spot in English Literature, but this time, Taylor isn’t sitting behind him. No, she’s sitting next to him, not even bothering to disguise her squinty, staring blue eyes—it seems like she’s trying to peer into his soul or something as dramatic. The quiz on his desk is turned over, finished easily, so he can’t pretend to be working on it to ignore the girl.

“You excited for our date tonight,” Taylor whispers.

“Mhm, so stoked.”

“I promise,” Taylor says, laying a hand on his arm, “you will never want to go on any normal date again!”

Okay, so that scares him. What is a normal date in Taylor’s book? “So, uh, where are we going?”

“That little Middle Eastern place I was telling you about. I hope you like spicy foods, I personally don’t, but they’ve got great salad choices, real good stuff. And the boat is so pretty, too.”

He nods and turns his papers over, pretending to check over his answers. He feels like he’s done well with this sudden, unexpected, unpredictable pop quiz over the new book they’ve received. If he doesn’t get a good grade on something that he studied and read over only about a hundred times, he may drop out. Maybe just to get away from Taylor, but still.

“Don’t forget, Harry Styles—tonight at seven sharp! I’ll wait for you at your building!” Taylor says once they’ve handed in their quizzes and are on their way out the door. “Dress nicely!”

“Don’t you need my address?” Harry calls out.

Taylor turns and smiles, “Nope! I know where you live, don’t worry.”

 _No_ , Harry thinks he really should worry.

He gets back to his dorm room later than he’d wanted, clock reading six, and he only has an hour to shower and dress. He’s not too worried, considering it’s not a real date, no matter what any blonde, perky girls with scary blue eyes think. He won’t bother shaving his lower regions, either. When he opens the door to his room, Perrie is sitting on his bed with an annoyed look covering her face.

“I’m not too sure I like the idea of you having a copy of my key, to be honest,” he says, whizzing past her to drop his bag on the bed and get his clothes together.

“You’re late, mister, where have you been?”

Harry rolls his eyes, pulling out a plaid shirt from his drawer of clothes and throwing it on the bed, hitting Perrie in the face. “Sorry, _Mom_ , I got held up at the library. The internet was down and I couldn’t get my copies.”

“Just get into the shower,” she says, pushing him into the small en-suite. “And hurry!”

When he comes out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist, Perrie is standing over his bed, scrutinizing the outfit he has laid out. He fixes his hair the best he can, adding a little plop of moose to define his curls, before pushing it back with a simple, white headscarf. He frowns at a zit coming in by his chin and thinks he needs to get his eyebrows done, before he gets an idea. “How weirded out do you think she’ll be when I show up with nail polish?” He holds up a small bottle of his favorite varnish.

Perrie snaps her head up and smirks. “Very weirded out, actually—your nails can’t possibly look better than hers, now, can they? Come here, let me do them, quick.”

They paint his nails a lovely shade of rouge and even add a nice dusting pink tint to his lips before he’s squeezing into his black skinny jeans and slipping on a large, dark blue dress shirt, and at a second thought, he unbuttons it from his collar until the head of his large butterfly tattoo spanning his stomach is visible. It’s five minutes to seven and he bets Taylor is in the downstairs lobby waiting for him, so he scrambles to get his boots from the closet, because although he doesn’t want to be on this date, he’s not going to be rude.

“Wait, hold on,” Perrie stops him, throwing his torn up boots back into the closet. “I got you something,” she says with a smile, pulling out a large, white bag with Neiman Marcus logo from underneath his bed. “I hope you like them.”

He knows anything from Neiman Marcus is sure to be expensive, something that he can’t possibly afford and wouldn’t even know how to pay Perrie back. He hesitantly takes the bag and peeps inside, where a blank, white shoebox nests comfortably. He pulls it out and his heart lurches at the intertwined _YSL_ engraved on the box. With clammy hands he pulls of the cover and inside are two, shiny, black leather ankle boots. They have a rounded toe and a small stacked heel and they’re absolutely perfect.

“I can’t accept these, Perrie, are you crazy?”

Perrie frowns and pushes the shoebox back at him. “Harry, c’mon, just humor me, please? You needed some good boots and I _know_ you love them!”

He does, he does love them. They’re smooth and comfortable, fitting him nicely, and he doesn’t even want to think about the price considering the famous brand. God, he doesn’t even want to _wear_ them—what if he scuffs them or steps into a puddle or what if he catches them on fire by some freak accident? He zips them up on the sides and stands. He loves them and can only thank his friend by giving her a big smooch on the cheek and a tight hug.

“Look at you!” Perrie whistles, nodding in content. “Here,” she hands him his wallet and watches him as he squeezes it into his back pocket and clips his keys onto his belt loop. “Don’t lose it again.”

Harry protests. “I did not lose it! Lou— _he_ stole it, I’m certain he did.”

It’s only two minutes later when there’s a gleeful little knock at his door, and he doesn’t even have time to be worried about the fact that Taylor knows where he sleeps at night, because Perrie yanks it open and hurries to hide behind the door. He sends her a small glare and shuts the door behind him, trusting his friend to lock up once she leaves.

“Harry! You look so great!” Taylor says, but her smile drops as she catches sight of his hands. “Are—are your fingernails painted?”

“Yes,” Harry replies, sticking both hands underneath her nose. “Is there a problem with my polish?”

“No! Of course not,” Taylor shakes her head frantically. “Aw, that’s so sweet, how’d you know my favorite color is red?”

Harry doesn’t say anything, doesn’t actually know _what_ to say, so he leads Taylor to the elevators. He knows this isn’t going anywhere, but she doesn’t, so there’s no harm in being nice to the girl, maybe he’ll enjoy himself, gorging on kebab and stuffed eggplant.

“Where’re we going?” he asks once he’s inside her black Merc, safely buckled in.

“ _Z’s Grill_! It’s one of my favorites. They have this Greek salad to _die for_ ; I’ll let you taste mine. It’s a really popular place, had to pull a few strings, maybe drop a few names, to get a place, but it’s so worth it. It’s by the harbor, obviously, and it’s probably packed to the core right.”

“Sounds great, but you know we can go somewhere else, doesn’t have to be fancy.”

“Aw,” Taylor coos and sends him a smile. “Harry, you don’t actually think I’m going to take us to like—like McDonalds or something do you? What kind of date would that be?” She reaches over the console to try and take his hand, but he quickly moves it out of the way, playing with a button on his shirt.

“It’s a very nice place,” Harry says once their inside the surprisingly classy and crowded restaurant, tucked into a corner booth. The boat is fancy, with soft lights strung up on the ceilings, giving the room romantic lighting. He can hardly feel the swaying of the lake. Everything on the menu looks delicious, but a kebab sounds incredible.

“I’m happy you came,” Taylor smiles at him over her menu. “I’ve wanted to take you out for ages now. I guess all my pleading finally paid off.”

Harry feels guilt surge him and he quickly moves his gaze away from her. _Ages_? But school only started a mere week ago, and Taylor gives him weird vibes. They order their food and Taylor starts talking about everything, from an ex boyfriend who dumped her over a twenty-second phone call to her cat (a conversation Harry actually enjoyed) to the books they’ll have to read for Lit. It’s around the time their food is brought, that Harry has to suppress a shudder. Something intangible and hot running across his spine.

“Are you cold?”

Harry just shakes his head no, placing a cloth napkin on his lap. The food is delicious, but the conversation is one-sided, and the guilt has yet to disappear. Yes, Taylor is annoying and pushy and incredibly chatty, but he shouldn’t have agreed to go on a ‘date’ just to get her off his back; he’s using her, is all, and it sits wrong in his stomach. She’s going on about her beloved Greek salad, when his phone, lying still on his thigh, vibrates suddenly, causing his leg to jerk, inevitably dropping his phone onto the carpet before he can make grasp at it.

Peering down, he sees that somehow the small device rolled its way over to the wall, by Taylor’s side, but the girl hasn’t even noticed anything is wrong, still distracted by her discussion on how to properly clean lettuce. He doesn’t hesitate, and soon he’s underneath the table, on his hands and knees, reaching for his iPhone. Taylor’s shoes are surprisingly cute. He’s reaching for the booth, when a flash of hot pink catches his eyes and in the booth in front of theirs stands a high pair of pink Louboutons and a pair of black Vans.

He doesn’t think anything of it, goes to hoist himself up from underneath, when someone speaks, burning his core with molten lava. It’s _that voice_ , the one that haunts him in his dreams, the one that makes him wake up sticky, the one he’s been unconsciously aching for. He’s here? _He’s here_.

“Yeah, this table is just fine,” Louis says, and his dainty feet disappear from Harry’s point of view, and he jerks up all the sudden forgetting exactly where he’s hiding, causing the table to rattle.

“Fuck,” he mutters, rubbing at his head as he resurfaces. He’s trying very hard to stand still and not speak too loudly, because what if Louis hears him? What if he recognizes him? Why, oh _why_ , did they have to be at the same place, at the same time? It’s like the universe is playing some sick joke on him, or maybe karma is working amazingly fast for what he’s doing to Taylor, leading her on like there’s a chance they’ll work out.

“Are you okay?” Taylor asks with worry.

“Just dandy,” he grits through clenched teeth. It’s like the night at _Fiction_ all over again; his head is throbbing, there’s a crazy, blonde girl with him, and Louis Tomlinson is making him feel all funny again. It’s nauseating.

He tries hard not to move around too much, afraid of gaining Louis’ attention, and if Harry’s sense of smell is correct, then the delicious, warm scent wafting from behind him _is_ Louis—he can recognize it from both times they’ve met, which also means the older man is sitting directly behind him. It’s a woody scent, with slight amber and sweet honey, and it’s not overpoweringly syrupy but very light too, with citrus, and just a hint of tobacco. Just his luck. 

It’s suddenly too hot in the once cool restaurant, and Harry wipes a small bead of perspiration from his upper lid. “Is it hot in here,” he leans across the table, asking in a low voice.

Taylor gives him an odd look and glances around the restaurant in slight suspicion. “Uh, no? Weren’t you cold just a second ago?”

“No, you’re right. So, how about that lettuce, huh?”

Taylor continues talking about this and that, but if Harry wasn’t interested before, he’s definitely on a whole other planet with Louis Tomlinson talking lowly behind him, in that soft, raspy voice of his that could possibly melt Harry’s heart. He can’t distinguish who the man is talking to, but there’s no doubt that it _is_ him. He nods every once in a while at Taylor, sending a small smile her way, and picks at his kebab.

“I’ll be right back,” Louis says to his—his _whatever_  sitting across the table from him. Harry refuses to call it a date. If Harry isn’t on a date, then neither is Louis and— _whoa_ , where did that come from? There’s shuffling behind him and he can only assume it’s Louis’ beautiful ass getting up from the booth. He shifts in his own seat, moving his body towards the wall so there’s no chance Louis can recognize him as he goes past his table.

Harry leans over again and pleads with big, green eyes. “I think we need to leave. Like, right now. Now would be best.”

“But why,” Taylor whines, sticking her bottom lip out dramatically, like a child who can’t get her way. “We just got here. Our date is going so great!”

If she thinks Harry nodding along and barely paying attention to a thing she’s saying is a _great date_ , he’d hate to think what she classifies as shitty dates. “I think the kebab was a bit too spicy for me,” he lies, pushing the food on his plate around. “My stomach’s upset.”

“Oh,” her face falls. _Fuck_ , Harry thinks. “Yeah, we can go out another time.”

“Or, uh,” he scrambles quickly to think, Louis must be coming back soon. “Let’s just go out for fro-yo! Yum, frozen yogurt, right—cool down my stomach and what not.”

“Ooh! I _love_ frozen yogurt, how did you know?”

He’s about to just give her a nod and yell for the waiter and the check, when he sees Louis making a beeline towards them. And, okay, maybe not directly towards them, but still! Harry is visible, exceptionally visible with his tall curls and broad shoulders and god, how does he shrink himself ant-size and hide behind the salt shaker? His hands scramble to grab something to cover himself up with, but there’s no time and Louis is getting closer with those exceptional blue eyes of his, so he slams his head onto the table to keep his face obscure.

He stays still, forehead pressed against the edge of the table, eyes blinking towards the carpet, until he hears Louis settle down behind him. When he looks back up, Taylor is staring at him with shocked, wide eyes.

“Are you sure you’re alright, Harr—“

“I’m fine!” He cuts her off with a loud squeak, before lowering his voice again. “I’m _fine_ , I promise. Why don’t we just stay here and finish our dinner?” He doesn’t think he can possibly handle yet another hour with her, eating fro-yo, and maybe, sort of, he wants to stick around to hear Louis’ soft voice behind him, and smell his soft scent, and—maybe.

He’s inches away from the man he’s been fantasizing about for over a week now and he can’t even touch him. He can’t break the small barrier between the two of them and run his fingers through that soft, feathery hair, or caress the sharp cheekbones with the pads of his fingers, or wrap his arms around that curvy waist. He can’t speak to the man, he can’t even _look_ at the soft, feathery hair or those sharp cheekbones or that curvy waist, and it’s Harry’s inferno.

(Of course he still remembers what an Ass Louis was that day on the beach, but surely he can live through it, or fuck, _forget_ it ever happened if Louis just throws him down on the table and fucks him raw over Taylor’s stupid salad.)

“God,” Harry closes his eyes, “calm down.”

“Sorry?” Taylor asks with a stab to a piece of lettuce.

“No, nothing…” he says, returning back to his dinner. Louis’ voice continues to act like a foghorn as he continues picking through his kebabs. The older man is angry, Harry can make out that much, and he’s sitting through a dinner of kebabs, just like him, with some girl named Chloe. He mentions a man named Stan a lot, and also things that shouldn’t make Harry’s heart flutter, but do, like: ‘There will never be an us, please understand that!’ and ‘We didn’t even fuck, what the hell are you talking about? A relationship?!’

It’s obviously a breakup dinner, or something similar to that, considering Louis and this Chloe person never slept together. Which shouldn’t make Harry want to turn around and kiss Louis through the glass barrier between the two tables, yet it does. There’s another feeing, too, roaming around in him, that feels a bit too much like jealousy. He’s jealous of the girl currently sitting across from Louis, getting to see his beautiful face, and he wants to be in her place, which is utterly inane—possessiveness coming out for someone he’s only met twice?

“Why do you slide each piece out of the stick? Why don’t you just use your mouth?” Taylor asks with a perplexed look.

He hasn’t even noticed he’s doing that, sliding each piece of meat or every vegetable, out from the skewer with his hands, instead of his teeth. “Oh, I hadn’t even noticed.”

“Do you need help with that?”

“With eating a kebab? I think I can handle it, thanks.”

“Wait, Harry—“

“No, I got it—“

“But, Harry, you can’t—“

“Taylor, let go of—“

What happens next is when he knows that karma has turned its’ back on him. It’s like it all happens in slow motion, like an explosive scene in a action-packed movie filled with guns and bad guys and crazy driving scenes down highways where someone ends up shooting on top of a car, where flames burst behind the good guy, who’s just walking away casually.  Except it’s not a movie, and Harry isn’t a hero, and he winces when his piece of meat lands with a plop on the table behind him and a woman—maybe Chloe—shrieks. Taylor stares at him with shocked eyes and he can’t move, choosing to close his eyes, like a shield on what’s going to happen next.

“Uh, Sir?”

Is he breathing? Is Harry breathing? Is this a dream, or is Louis Fucking Tomlinson tapping his shoulder with a hand he managed to sneak underneath the small break in the glass barrier between the two booths?

“Sir,” Louis taps his shoulder again. “I think there’s a piece of kebab that belongs to you.”

“It’s not mine,” he blurts out quickly.

Louis is silent for a few seconds. “I believe it is.”

“No,” Harry mumbles, opening his eyes and ignoring the disbelieving look Taylor is giving him. He refuses to turn around or accept that piece of kebab or let Louis know who he is. “It’s not mine, sorry, wrong person. I don’t even _like_ kebabs.” Out of the corner of his eyes, Harry can see Louis trying to push the small piece of meat underneath the partition.

“Alright,” Louis says in a calm voice. “I can throw it away, then, if it’s not yours.”  It’s quite shocking, how— _pleasant_ he’s being, so unlike the man he met at the beach.

“It’s not mine, please leave me alone.” Harry grimaces at the obvious pleading and uncomfortable tone in his voice.

“Listen, man, I don’t want to be rude, but I also don’t want your damn kebab. So do everyone a favor and take it back.”

“Fine,” Harry snaps, reaching behind him blindly with one hand, until he meets Louis’ and the meat, and snatches it, dropping it onto his plate. “We really need to leave, my stomach—it’s killing me.” He widens his eyes for an effect and pouts at Taylor.

“Fine,” Taylor agrees, with eyes as big as Harry’s. “I’ll get a waiter and we’ll go.”

Harry thanks her and nods, but when he hears a gasp behind him, he knows that it’s too late.

“Harry?”

The said boy bites his lip and hunches over the table, cowering from the strong gaze on his back. He hears Louis shift around in his booth and his voice clearly over the top of the partition.

“Harry, is that you?”

He really doesn’t want to hear the visible hopefulness in Louis’ voice, but it’s there, loud and clear. “No,” he mutters. “’M not this Harry you speak of.”

“Really?” Louis snorts. “Then what’s your name?”

“Uh, Marcel.” _Marcel_?

Louis hums and repositions himself, and Harry can hear his muttering underneath his breath to himself. He waits a couple seconds until he lifts his head up from the table and the second he looks up, he wishes he hadn’t. Not only is Taylor sitting across from him with confusion written all over her petite face, but besides her is none other than Louis Tomlinson, smiling his cute, little smug smirk, with arched eyebrows and amused eyes. He’s fucked.

The way his eyes roam around Harry’s face with that sexy leer on his face shouldn’t make Harry’s dick twitch in his pants.

“Harry,” Louis beams, teeth white and pointy, and what wouldn’t he do to feel them sink into his thighs? “I knew it was you, you sly little thing. Think you can hide from me, do you?”

Taylor scoffs, shooting their new visitor a look. “Harry, you know Louis Tomlinson?”

“Uh, no,” Harry lies, plopping a piece of grilled tomato into his mouth to keep quiet.

“I believe you should leave,” Taylor says, but Louis doesn’t even acknowledge her presence even as she tries to push him out of the booth.

Louis crosses his arms and rests them on the table. “How’ve you been, Harry, it’s been quite some time?”

 _Yet not enough_ , Harry thinks. He sits up straight in his seat and pushes a curl behind his ear, just to have something to do with his hands. “I’ve been great, thank you.” He doesn’t want to know how Louis has been, because he can guess he’s been busy, making millions and fucking men and women left and right, and he doesn’t care. He doesn’t. That’s why he won’t ask, because he doesn’t care.

Louis nods and his eyes fall to Harry’s chest, where his shirt is unbuttoned, the swallows on his chest and the top of his butterfly visible, and it’s like he can almost feel the light drag of diminutive fingers on his skin, just like in his dreams. “You look incredibly beautiful tonight, if I do say so myself.”

Harry scoffs. “Are you paying me a compliment, or are you just trying to get me to go home with you again?”

“Well,” Louis shrugs a shoulder. “Both, you can say. You truly look mesmerizing, and I truly do want to get you in my bed. So, both, yes.” Next to him, Taylor chokes on her drink.

Harry matches Louis’ stance and crosses his arms, leaning on the table, and raising an eyebrow. “Don’t you have a date to get back to?”

“No, she went to the restroom.”

He swirls around in his seat to check, and yes, the booth behind him in completely empty. “That’s nice, but you’re interrupting mine.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Louis laughs loudly and it’s a chorus of angels singing. “A date? Is that what this is?” He waves a dainty hand at the table. “A date? If that,” he says underneath his breath.

“Just go back to your seat, Louis, please,” Harry pleads, slumping in his seat. “Why are you even here?”

“This is Zayn’s restaurant,” Louis says minimally. “All the Tomlinson’s eat here for free.”

 _Out of all the damn restaurants in the whole city of Chicago, Taylor has to pick one owned by a Tomlinson_. _They're on a fucking boat._  Of course, because why not?  “It’s nice to see you again,” it’s more than nice, “but I would really like to get back to my—my date.” He points a strong, steady finger at Taylor. “I was having a _marvelous_ time.”

“Right, of course.” Louis stands up in all his glory and brushes down the plain white tee underneath a black blazer. “Harry… Harry, it was a pleasure seeing you again,” he says, quietly, and nods before going behind him and sitting back down at his table.

“Let’s just go, please,” he breathes out once he is able to find his voice again, and Taylor nods.

“That was weird, yeah, let’s.” She asks for the bill and they split it into two, before excusing herself to use the ladies’ room.

As he waits, a shadow looms over him, and he’s too scared too look up. He feels a piece of a paper, firm and thick, slip into his hand. Louis is standing over him with a cocky grin. “What is this?”

“If you ever want to have some real fun,” he says, like _that_ explains the business card with _Louis Tomlinson_ written in neat print and several phone numbers, including two emails. “C’mon, Harry, you can do better than her. She looks like the type to write a song about you when you break up, promising to never, ever get back together with you. She has crazy eyes.”

“That’s true,” Harry mumbles, hand clutching around the paper warm in his grip. He folds it in half and lifts his hips off the bench, not missing the way Louis’ eyes travel with his movements, and shoves it into his back pocket. “I’m not going to call,” he whispers sternly.

Louis chuckles, grabbing his hands and running the pads of his fingers over Harry’s delicate, red fingernails with an expression Harry can't decode. Does he like them? Does he think they’re strange since he’s a male? Is he not interested in Harry anymore?

“Don’t you want a nice, thorough fuck?” is what he says instead, dropping Harry’s hand.

 _Yes! Please!_ “No,” Harry snaps. “You’re rude and patronizing, with an ego larger than Kanye’s. I can do without, thank you.”

Louis laughs. “Look at you,” his eyes flit all over Harry’s warm body, from his revealing chest, to his lips, to his lap. “You look like you could come, right here and now.”

Harry turns to stare straight ahead, wanting to deny it, but he’s an awful liar, and it’s true. One look his way or one simple touch to his skin, and he could explode right in his pants in the middle of the busy restaurant. “You don’t know, maybe my date could help me out tonight.” He has to refrain from grimacing at his own words, knowing that an ice age or hell freezing over would happen before Taylor lays a hand on him.

Louis scoffs. “I could do much better than she ever could,” he stresses, and Harry grins, knowing he struck a nerve. “There are things that I can do that she could never even imagine.”

“I’m not so sure,” Harry purses his lips in doubt. “It doesn’t seem like you have that much experience with men. After all, you’re here with a lady, am I correct?” Louis stiffens and Harry wants to laugh at how all the idiotic things he’s saying and how easily affected by them the smaller man is.

“You have _no_ idea of what I’m capable of in the bedroom,” Louis growls lowly into Harry’s ear. “I can make you feel like you’ve never felt before, make your body burn. I can make you scream until you can’t go on any longer, until your body begs you to stop, but you won’t want to. You’ll want what I’ll be giving you, you’ll love the way it hurts, love the pain of too much pleasure.”

Harry squirms in his seat, his body reacting to Louis’ threats—or promises? He’s thankful his date is still busy in the bathroom and that there are other people around, including children, otherwise he would’ve already thrown himself on top of the table and pulled Louis down with him. “I—I’ll take care of myself,” he whispers so lowly, he’s not even sure he said it.

“Mhm,” Louis agrees, a low groan escaping his throat. His lips brush up against the hot skin on Harry’s throat, his dark curls forming a curtain in between them. “I know you can, I would _kill_ to watch.”

“I don’t need your help,” Harry repeats, voice weak. He’s gone, so gone, for this asshole, for this man who only teases and taunts him.

“You’re so hard, aren’t you?” Louis’ hand snakes its was underneath the table and grips Harry’s thigh, squeezing tight, causes the said boy to stutter in a breath. “I bet you’re throbbing for attention, begging to clench around my dick.” He trails a finger further up slowly, until he reaches Harry’s groin, pushing down with his index on his bulge.

“I don’t need your help,” Harry breathes out for the last time, closing his eyes as a hand explores in his lap, fingers trailing up and down his hardened, hidden cock. It’s been _weeks_ since he’s been touched by anyone other than his right hand.

“Yes, you do, Harry,” Louis says with a laugh, breaking the spell he had him under as he pulls his hand away and shifts out of the booth. When did he get into it in the first place? “One of these days—you won’t be able to resist me.”

Harry’s cheeks go up in flames—he knows everything Louis is saying is true, he knows it’s only a matter of time before he goes falling into bed with him, but he _wants_ it, he’s gagging for it. “Don’t be so s-sure,” he stutters, sliding out of the seat. He can't find Taylor with the quick scan he does of the room, feeling awful that he's about to leave her on a boat. He’s glad his bulge isn’t too noticeable, that Louis didn’t rile him up _too_ much, and that he can still walk away with his dignity—or some of it.

“I don’t think we’ll be seeing each other again,” he states one last time, nodding at Louis before turning around and walking towards the door. When he’s about to step foot on the ramp leading towards land, he chances one last look behind him, and he wishes he hadn’t. Louis’ watching him, his blue eyes piercing at him, with a smug, crooked grin on his face.

He’s most definitely being punished by a greater force.

 


	7. Risks and Rewards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOT MINE. Thanks! Plot/character/everything belongs to Johnnyboy7 on fanfiction.net

* * *

 

  _“A ship is safe in harbor, but that's not what ships are for.” ― William G.T. Shedd_

 

 

It’s been hour since Harry ran out the boat, his  _girl_ date hot on his heels, and Louis is frustrated. Which, as of late, has become more of a regular feeling, and he hates it. He hates all these—all these _feelings_ that he... feels. He’s not used to it, not used to such a large range of emotions flitting through his system. He’s agitated and annoyed, but that’s nothing new. Usually, he’s only smug, indifferent, and annoyed, but now—now there are weird flutters in the pit of his stomach and heat that rushes to his face and his heart beats abnormally fast. It’s _weird_.

It’s been an hour since Harry left and thirty minutes since he dismissed Chloe, and now he’s sitting by his lonesome, staring at the empty booth in front of him, his mind racing. What was so great about the blonde girl his boy was with? _Was_ it a date they were on? He had convinced himself that Harry was gay, or damn, at least bisexual, but now he’s definitely sure it’s the former. He saw no connection, no sparks, between Harry and the girl; in fact, Harry seemed to cringe away from her, and he was tense and uncomfortable. But then why was he on a date with her in the first place? And where are they now?

Louis can’t believe that Harry actually went home with that girl, no way. He grimaces, but what if he did? What if— _no_ , he’s not going to think of things like that, he’ll get nightmares. The only person Harry should go home with is him, obviously. But why is it so hard for Harry to just give in? Is he not like, _attracted_ to Louis? The man finds that theory incredulous: everyone is attracted to Louis.

He knows Harry is right, that his ego is as big, or maybe even larger, than Kayne West’s, but he just can’t find a reason for the boy’s rebuff, can’t find a reason as to why he keeps being denied such a simple, sweet pleasure. Unless, Harry is some kind of sadist, which, hey, Louis can get behind that motion, or most likely, he’s just a big ol’ tease. He’s going to go insane, he’s sure of it. Maybe it’s time to start up with the therapy appointments again.

Louis stands from the empty booth and leaves a hefty tip, before turning on his heel and heading towards the kitchen. There, he passes bustling waiters and hurried cooks in cliché white hats, gives his compliments to the chef, and keeps on walking until he reaches the door and goes into a lonely, quiet hallway— a drastic contrast to the chaos inside. He doesn’t bother knocking, just walks into the office and nods at his brother.

Zayn holds up a finger in acknowledgement and continues with his phone call, pushing a crystal bowl filled with M&Ms towards Louis, who sinks down in one of the plush chairs, propping his feet up on the desk. He waits patiently, picking up a handful of the small candies, and only plopping the brown ones into his mouth, dropping the rest back into the bowl. He ignores Zayn’s disgusted look and sticks out his chocolate-coated tongue out like a child.

“I hate this place,” Zayn greets, slamming the phone back into its’ base after ten minutes. “ _Jay’s_ is running great, but this one. There’s always a problem in this restaurant.”

Louis shrugs, threading through the candies for the brown M&Ms. “Maybe you’re just not running this place right.”

“Obviously,” Zayn affirms, taking back to crystal bowl and scowling. “Why do you do that, now the rest of them have your germs...Anyway, why are you here?”

“I came with Chloe, you know, to let her down easy. Or try to, anyway.”

“Oh?” Zayn perks up in interest and shoves a handful of the small chocolate candies in his mouth, no preference over color, unlike his mental, younger brother. “I didn’t know you two were an item, although now what Ma said makes sense,” he says through a mouthful, shrugging. “She’ll be disappointed.”

“Wait, what did Ma say?” Louis asks, perplexed. He should’ve known his mother was planning something or another.

Zayn shrugs again. “She wanted Chloe to be the link between us and the Lucases. You know how Ma is, always in business mode, scheming. I think she wanted you guys to become a couple and then find something to use against the Greeks.”

He’s not surprised; Johannah Tomlinson would try and find a way to get business done through her son’s love interest. Which, in actuality, is so far from the truth; Chloe Lucas was never even an interest, much less anything related to the _L_ word. He knows most mothers are like that, always meddling in their children’s lives, but what mother wants her gay son to date a woman just to bring down a rival, illegal-business family? Only a Tomlinson.

“Well, whatever,” Louis shakes his head to clear his mind. “Chloe—I needed somewhere public, just in case. She’s delusional, saying she wants to be with me forever, move out to suburbs, and raise our three point five kids. She probably dreams of a Labrador, too. I think she forgot that we never even slept together.”

“So you bring her to my restaurant, out of all the places in Chicago,” Zayn scoffs. “What if she had like, stabbed someone? Or slapped a waitress, like that one time?”

Louis stretches his arms out over his head and sighs. “Not my problem.” He contemplates whether or not to tell the older man about who was on a date in the dining room an hour ago, on his encounter with one Harry Styles. If he did, there’s no doubt the man would start asking questions, questions that Louis isn’t sure he knows how to answer. On the other hand, he really does want to know where Zayn resides on the topic; he wants to know what his brother thinks, and what he would say about the whole situation.

“I was enjoying my lovely dinner out there,” he nods towards the door, “and guess who was sitting directly behind me?”

Zayn doesn’t look up from where he’s flipping through a thick magazine on restaurant décor. “I dunno, who?”

Louis hesitates. “Uh, Harry, actually.”

The name gets Zayn’s attention, has him snapping his neck up and glancing at him through thick, black lashes in disbelief. “Really, Harry? My Frog?” 

Louis’ hand twitches at the term of endearment; he doesn’t like the idea of someone other than him giving out terms of endearment of Harry, _his_. And really, is it a term of endearment? _Frog?_ Out of all the possibilities, Zayn chooses to stamp such an ugly nickname on one of the most beautiful boys Louis has ever seen. “Yeah, _your Frog_ ,” he says through a clenched jaw.

Zayn hums. “I wonder what he was doing here, out of all places. Do you think he knows this is my place? Maybe he even asked to see me.”

“Not quite,” Louis laughs. “He was on a date. With some blonde girl.”

“Really?” Zayn purses his lips, intrigued, and taps his fingers against the desk. “Was it the other girl from the club? The hot one with the taser? Are they an item and do you think they’d let me watch?”

Louis grimaces at the visual image. While, yes, a naked and sweaty Harry, with glassy eyes and swollen, red lips is a sight for the Gods, he doesn’t want to picture it with anyone other than him. He doesn’t want to think about someone else seeing the boy like that, he doesn’t want to hear about it unless it’s his body on top of Harry’s, unless he’s the one causing him to moan out in pleasure, begging for more, unless those lips are wrapped around his own length. Other than that, he doesn’t even want to think about Zayn joining in _anything_ to do with Harry Styles.

“No,” Louis finally says, having to shake himself out of his redundant thoughts once again. “It wasn’t her, why?”

“No, I don’t know.” Zayn bites his lip and returns to his catalog, trying a go at nonchalance. “It’s just that—the taser thing was hot, yeah? Like, think how hot it would be if she used that on me?”

Louis really would rather not think of that. And _wait_ —what is Zayn saying? “I thought you were into Fro—Harry, are you into his friend?” He stares up at the heavily-tatted man with wide eyes, waiting impatiently. If Zayn isn’t into Harry like he once thought before, then the coast is completely clear. “Also, really? Pain kink? Did you and Lia—“

“I just thought Perrie was really interesting,” Zayn interrupts with a hazy glaze in his eyes. “She was cute. And you know me, I don’t really go after blondes, but after Li—but I just think maybe change is good, change is great. This is a new year, a new beginning, and things will change.”

A new year? It’s not even October yet. Louis nods hesitantly, aware of the sudden change in his brother. Is he high? And if so, why hadn’t he offered him anything? His family has just been so rude as of late. “ _Right_ … So you’re not into Harry, then?” he asks again, looking for clarification. It’s not like Louis won’t go after Harry if Zayn says he is still interested, because he will, no doubt, but it’s just better to know that Zayn—who may or may not have been sculpted by angels—isn’t competition.

“I was,” Zayn looks pensive, staring into the distance, somewhere behind Louis’ shoulder. “I really liked Harry, really hot, all frog-like. I don’t know, it did something for me, but he’s just so— _weird_. Don’t get me wrong, Lou, he’s beautiful, but there’s something about Harry… I don’t get it.”

Louis completely understands. Harry _is_ peculiar, a different species, and it’s completely enthralling. There is something about him that Louis wants to figure out, and it’s almost scary how much he wants to unzip the boy and see what’s underneath, see what makes him tick, what makes him run. Maybe he just finds him strange because he’s _chasing after him_ ; maybe it is just the fact that Harry hasn’t given into Louis’ advances, something so odd and unusual. He just can’t help but feel as though Harry is different for other unknown reasons; he’s never met anyone like him before, and he gets the allusion that there’s just as much running through his mind as there is in Louis’.

Zayn continues, “I really liked that Perrie girl, though. Got nice lips, didn’t she?”

“Can’t really remember much, aside from the hundreds of bolts of electricity shooting through your body of course,” Louis deadpans, “but _yes_ , I’m sure she has nice lips.”

“Look,” Zayn squints at him, “if you see Harry again, make sure to tell him to drop my name around for Perrie. She might be interested, who knows?”

“Okay,” Louis replies slowly and stands up from his seat, completely set on dismissing Zayn’s random, bizarre behavior. “I’ll see you later, okay, bro?”

 

Once at home, he’s completely lost on what to do.  It’s a young Friday night, and instead of consuming unhealthy amounts of vodka, dodging the grubby hands of scantly-dressed women, and grinding back against hard dicks in a club, he’s lying on top of his perfectly-made bed, starring up at his high ceiling. He has no energy for any of his usual weekend activities; it’s like Harry’s sucked the life out of him.  The boy is so high on Louis’ _To Fuck_ list, literally number one on a note in his phone, that bringing anyone back to the penthouse would feel wrong—anyone else would just fall short and pale in comparison.

He closes his eyes, breathes in deeply, and tries to relax, hopes that sleep consumes him quickly, but after a few short minutes, he sighs and sits back up in defeat. He’s never been one for much sleep, even as a young child—rest has just never come easy to him, unlike Zayn, who can fall asleep anywhere, even in a moving car while eating a sub sandwich. His old therapist, a plump lady with an incredibly pink office and rates up to three hundred an hour, had simply said he had too much on his mind right before he went to sleep, that he shouldn’t worry so much.

Easier said than done!

When the sun rises the next morning, painting the sky hues of pinks and oranges and violets like watercolors, Louis is already awake. He rolls out of bed; his body feeling like his blood turned into steel overnight, and slumps his way to the bathroom, where he does his very calculated and precise morning routine. As he scrubs his body clean, he thinks.

He wants Harry. It’s that simple; he wants all of him, and for some bizarre reason, his methods just aren’t doing what they usually do when it comes to the boy. He needs to go in a whole new direction, develop a brand new system, one especially fit for Harry Styles. He doesn’t want to admit it, but he needs help. The only problem is, who is he to turn to?

He can’t ask Zayn for help, he realizes as he exfoliates his face. He definitely can’t ask Liam, who would only tell him he’s wasting his time and that he needs to find a woman to settle down with, for the sake of the family. He could ask Sophia, who may or may not be Liam’s fiancée now, considering she’s all sweet and soft and whatever, a bit like Harry, but she doesn’t even know about his sexual preference. He’s never needed any help with the same sex, but there’s only one person who understands his attraction to males, who likes them just as much as he, and that’s his little sister, who has had more secret boyfriends then anyone else in their immediate family.

He steps out of the marble shower exactly twenty-five minutes later and wraps a warm towel around his waist, going directly from his bathroom to his enormous walk-in. Weekdays are workdays, Sundays are God’s day, and Saturdays are Louis’ day, and he’ll be damned if he wears something other than one of his soft tees and a pair of red basketball shorts that rarely see the light of day. He doesn’t bother with shoes just yet, and instead goes back into the bathroom to finish his routine, brushing his teeth and styling his hair into a soft fringe. He switches the lights off and on twice, before finally leaving his bedroom altogether.

Louis pads down the stairs with soft feet and looks around at the impeccably clean area with a frown. What the hell does he do now? He searches through the kitchen pantry for a small breakfast, but finds it completely empty, along with the cabinets. The fridge only holds a few items he’s positive are long expired and beer.

He taps his short, bitten fingernails on the island countertop impatiently. He could go over some bills, or maybe even some of the financial records that need to be looked over, but fuck it—it’s Saturday, Louis’ day, and hell no, he is not doing work. He could send a message through the group Whatsapp and persuade his brothers into spending a crazy night with him at _Fiction_ , or he could just go to the Tomlinson Estate and chill out with his little sisters, but both those options require energy he can’t muster up inside himself to find. What he _needs_ to do is take Lottie out for breakfast at her favorite coffee place and pick her young brain.

He spends two hours on the sofa, switching back and forth from playing Fifa and surfing the web for nothing in particular, before he decides to call. The phone rings for a few beats until it clicks and there’s heavy breathing on the other side. “Uh, Lot—“

“ _Louis_ ,” his younger sister groans with sleep, or maybe annoyance, but most likely both. “It’s nine in the morning on a Saturday, I do not need this, Louis! Some of us like to sleep, unlike you, and I got back in this morning like, three hours ago, so unless you’re dying, or dead, or both, I do _not_ care!”

“Okay, watch your tone with me, young lady,” Louis scowls. “Otherwise, when I’m the leader of this family, I’ll have your scrubbing toilets and picking up after the dogs.”

Lottie grunts. “You would not do that!”

“Try me. Anyway, I need to speak to you. How about breakfast?”

“Make it lunch. I need to go to the gym and work off this hango—work out, I need to work out,” she stammers. “Brunch?”

Louis rolls his eyes and stands from the sofa, walking to the kitchen for a glass of water. “For a Tomlinson, you are an awful liar.” He takes a short sip. “Have someone drop you off here and I’ll meet you at the gym in the basement in an hour. We can go eat later, deal?” His sister grumbles and yawns, but agrees nonetheless before hanging up.

It’s exactly an hour later when he presses the button for the basement, dressed in a simple white tee, his basketball shorts, and a pair of bright yellow Nikes. The gym is more than just a simple exercising room with machines and weights; there’s an indoor Olympic pool the same exact size as the one on the rooftop, a luxury spa, steam rooms, tennis and basketball courts, a track, and an impressive weight training room. The gym would be his pride and joy of the building, if it wasn’t for the full size soccer field one level underneath the basement. He wanted something nearby, and it can’t get any closer than an elevator ride away, especially when he has full access to the track and soccer field at night, when he’s restless.

Louis makes it down the building from the penthouse to the basement in a matter of minutes and when the doors open, he has to stop himself from skipping out of the elevator; a new wave of excitement and hope rushing through him. There’s also determination there, on the top layer of his skin—he’s willing to take anyone’s help along as he gets Harry. The doors open when he swipes his card and he makes his way towards the weights room, greeted by many of the workers and a few residents.

Lottie is already there on a bicycle with earphones in and a magazine in front of her. Louis climbs onto a bike besides her and starts pumping his legs slowly, noting that his sister hasn’t even broken a sweat yet. She flips through the fashion issues with fast, blue eyes before sighing and closing it. “What do you want, Lou?”

“I need your help with something quite—delicate,” he admits.

Lottie slows her legs even more and turns to him, scoffing. “Oh my,” she laughs. “What’s this? The great, powerful, almighty Louis Tomlinson needs help?”

“It’s shocking, I know. I was scared at first, too, but I need your help with something.”

“With what, exactly? Is this business stuff?” She lowers her voice. “’Cause I already told Ma that I would get into all that dirty work after I was done with college, like you and Z.”

“No.” Louis shakes his head, moving his legs faster. “It’s not like that. I just—I need your help—you know about _stuff_ like this—and. There’s this _boy_ , okay? I’m—I. I am having boy problems.” He stutters and lowers his gaze, feeling like a nerdy, high school Michael Cera in one of his many silly rom-coms.

“Boy problems?” Lottie repeats loudly and a few heads turn their way. She pulls out her earphones and sends him a wild look. “What does that even mean?”

“Let’s just go out to brunch, yeah?” He stands from the bike. “I’ll explain then. An hour?”

“Fine, whatever.” Lottie plugs her earphones back in and starts moving her legs slowly again.

He leaves her alone, to work off that hangover like she accidentally confessed earlier, and rides the elevator back to the lobby, where he checks in with his employees. He’s not dressed for brunch, but forgoes going back to the penthouse to change from his comfy workout clothes, and instead strolls out of the building and onto the empty sidewalk, heading towards the park nearby.

There, children and their mothers, couples sat close on benches and on the grasses, and old men playing chess fill the green area. He’s always noticed couples, everywhere he goes there seems to be a happy, kissy couple that loves to embrace in his annoyed presence. They’re everywhere; cuddling on the benches, making out on the grass, reading to each other against the trunks of thick trees, enjoying picnics on soft blankets, laughing with each other and walking hand-in-hand. Years ago, it would only annoy him and send him back home, but now he doesn’t want to admit the envy that unfolds in his stomach, doesn’t want to acknowledge that fact that he’s definitely missing out on _something_ , whatever it may be.

He’s not normal; he’s never been like any ordinary man, so how does he even go about to having an ordinary, healthy relationship? He can’t just bring an outsider into such a dangerous life, can’t bring someone like, for example, Harry into his life—someone so sweet and warm and special, into the line of fire. It’s hard for the Tomlinson children, for him, for Lottie, for Zayn—you never know who to trust, you can never know when the person you will fall in love can’t take it anymore. He doesn’t know how Liam can do it, how he can hide his feelings for Zayn, how he can _hurt_ Zayn like that if he supposedly loves him.

How do relationships even work? Why does someone always end up hurt?

It wouldn’t be right to bring Harry into his life, to subject him to danger and the treachery that he is. How would they even make it work? How would Harry react? He knows he’s getting ahead of himself, but what would they even look like together, as a couple? Physically, they’re so different from each other, summer and winter. Harry’s tall and lean, with creamy, white skin while Louis is short and thick, skin kissed by the sun. Would they be like pieces of a ying-yang, complimenting each other so nicely?

His thoughts are immensely laughable.

When he gets back to the hotel, Lottie is sitting on one of the plush chairs in the lobby, tapping away at her phone. She stands when she sees him and makes her way over, dressed in a dress and combat boots. “Where we going, Lou?”

“Wherever you want, I need your help.”

“Good thing, then.” Lottie stalks towards the exit without another glance, Louis trailing behind her. They grab a cab, much to his dismay and horror, and the ride is filled with her chatter about anything and everything. They pull onto the street a half hour later and he’s surprised they’ve stopped in front of Park Hyatt, instead of a Starbucks, like he predicted. Maybe his little sister is gaining good taste after all, like her big brother.

 “Thought we could eat at NoMi’s, yeah? Maybe in the lounge, over a glass of wine, and you can really tell me why you've brought me,” Lottie says as the elevator lifts them up to the seventh floor.

“I already told you why, but alright. And no wine for you, you’re not twenty-one yet.”

Lottie whines. “I _know_ you boys where doing worst things at Daisy and Phoebe’s age, way worst than a glass or two of wine.”

They’re sat quickly at the Lounge, in a great spot by the window overlooking the sprawling city with no reservations or words—their faces are recognizable enough to get them into the most exclusive places in The Windy City. They order their drinks and their lunch, waiting for one another to begin.

“So,” Lottie starts, sipping her rosemary lemonade tea. “What’s all this about? It’s not everyday you call me out of the blue and invite me to brunch, or like, ever. And tell me the truth; I don’t believe that bull about ‘boy problems’.

Louis shrugs and clinks his spoon against the side of his coffee cup. “It’s the truth, Lots. I need your help.”

“Wait.” She puts down her glass and stares at him with shocked eyes. “Are you serious? I’ve known you all my young life, and not once have I ever seen you ask for help with _anything_ , yet here you are—asking your younger sister for _boy advice_. Oh, my god, I can’t wait to tell Fi—“

“You’re not telling anyone!” Louis cuts her off harshly. “No one must know about this, Lottie, I’m serious. Not Fizzy, or Zayn, or Liam, not Ma. _Especially_ not Liam and Zayn, they’ll never let me live it down.”

“ _I’ll_ never let you live it down,” the teenager mumbles. “Fine,” she sighs, sipping her ice tea. “Let me hear it, Lou.”

He nods and opens his mouth to let it all out, but nothing comes out. How the hell does he even begin? How does he word everything that’s happened without coming off as an idiot, or an egotistical, narcissistic man? “Alright, let’s just say that I—hypothetically speaking, of course—tried to… uh, what’s the word? I tried to—“

“Fuck someone?” Lottie answers smugly.

“Ma would’ve cleaned your mouth out with soap if she’d heard you.” Louis rolls his eyes. “But yes, I tried to fuck this guy, alright? But it’s— _nothing_ is working! He’s the most stubborn person I have ever met, I promise. It’s the most annoying thing I have ever encountered in my life.”

Lottie laughs. “So your normal tricks aren’t working, is that what you’re saying?”

“No,” Louis nearly growls with frustration. “Nothing is working. It’s fucking irritating.”

“Have you ever just thought this one isn’t a slut like the other trash you usually pick up? Maybe he actually has a virtue.”

Oh.

“I don’t ‘pick up’ people, Lottie, they come to me. Except for Harry, he’s not like that. Do you think it’s me?” He asks with worry. “Is it my magic—is it wearing off? Maybe he’s messed up, or not even gay, straight as a ruler.”

“Let me understand correctly.” Lottie cocks an eyebrow and taps a long, red fingernail against the table. “Because this guy isn’t coming onto your surely pathetic and offensive advances, he’s messed up? You’re a swine, Louis, unbelievable.”

“You don’t understand; it’s the way he’s acting that is making me like this! The fact that all he does is push me away and reject me—that makes me want him even more, makes me crave for him harder. He pushes me away and I—?” And he _what_ , exactly? He wants to say something more, wants to talk about all these _feelings_ inside him, but he physically can’t speak anymore.

Lottie leans on her elbows and narrows her eyes at him in question, gaze flitting all over his face. “You only want to have sex with this boy, Lou?” she asks after a couple seconds of awkward silence. “That’s it, then?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Louis nods quickly. “I just need to—he has to let me in, I need to _know_  him.”

“How many times have you met?”

“Only three times, but he’s so clumsy.” Louis smiles to himself in memory, remembering the first night they met at Liam’s club, and the small scar that formed on his temple. “Always tripping and stumbling over his own feet.”

“Wow, three times? And he _still_ hasn’t given in?” Lottie gasps mockingly, “What ever will you do?”

Louis glowers. “Shut up and give me some advice, or you can pay for your own lunch.”

“I’m sure I can afford a fourteen dollar Panini, thanks,” she retaliates through her laughter. “Look, for someone who not only has slept with hundreds of men and _is_ one, you know nothing about them. For someone who has dated here and there and is still half a virgin, I know more about your sex than you do.”

“ _Half a virgin_? What the fuck does that me—“

“Have you ever thought 'bout how, _maybe_ ,  he just doesn’t like you, Louis?” Lottie interrupts before things go awry. 

“No,” Louis denies the thought, “impossible.”

Lottie huffs. “I’m going to ignore that incredibly narcissistic answer and continue. Have you ever, oh, I don’t know, thought that _you_ need to change?”

Louis jerks his coffee cup away from his lips, hot liquid flowing over the rim of the cup and dropping onto his chest, but Lottie’s labyrinth of words burn more. “What the hell does _that_ mean?” he snaps, eyes narrowing. “I don’t change, especially not for anyone.”

“You already have,” Lottie snickers.

“But I don’t change,” he says softly, confusion toning his words.

“Just think about it,” Lottie purses her lips. “Louis, truth be told, you look like absolute shit. You haven’t shaved in days, you’re wearing _gym shorts_ out in public, you just got hot coffee on your shirt and you haven’t even complained about the stain yet. When was the last time you got your whole five hours of sleep, huh? You’re stressing over a _man_ , of all things. What does this tell you?”

He wants to scoff in her face and say, _nothing, it tells me absolutely nothing!_ But he can’t. He knows that Harry is all the plagues his mind lately, and he is the one that prevents him from resting when the time comes, but he just wanted to ignore those facts, keep himself in the dark. Lust can only go so far, and he feels as though he crossed the border line ages ago. He can take a bullet to the brain, but he knows that his mind would still be on him. _What does this tell him_?

“You obviously have more than just a sexual attraction to this man,” Lottie explains slowly, like Louis hadn’t gotten it the first time, swirling her straw in the tea, ice cubes clinking melodically against the glass. “This man—what’s his name again? Henry?”

“Harry,” Louis speaks into his coffee cup.

“Alright, Harry must be special then. I mean, not only are _you_ chasing _him_ instead of the other way around, but you’re fucking jungle chasing him, too.”

“Jungle chasing,” Louis repeats. “What’s that?”

Lottie hums. “I like to call it that when all your movement and thoughts are done by pure instinct, like an animal in the wild, a tiger on the prowl. They don’t think, they only react and pounce. He makes you so angry, doesn’t he? He makes you want to scream, but there’s nothing you can do except try and make him fall into your traps. He—Harry is forcing you to change, whether you realize it or not, your habits are changing. You just can’t stop thinking about him.”

Louis can’t deny or confirm, but even if he could, it’s be wasted energy. They both know Lottie is hitting the nail on the head, and he can’t speak. He stays silent, for the first time in his life—he doesn’t have anything to say.

Lottie’s laugh startles him. “You’re in total and complete jungle chasing mode, you don’t even notice!”

“Shut up,” Louis mumbles, looking around the crowded area with a hot face.

“You can’t even see it for yourself, can you?” Lottie shakes her head, light blonde hair falling into her eyes. “I know more about men than you do, trust me, and let me tell you one thing, Lou: this boy, this Harry, he’s smart and you’re fucked. He knows what he’s doing, and probably has encountered men like you before, and he’s not going to fall for your antics. I can’t wait to meet him.”

“You’re never going to meet him, ever. I just—one time, and that’s it. I need him one time and I’ll go my way.” He confirms, but it sounds like he’s trying to reassure himself in their ears, making him cringe. “Just one fuck.”

“There’s no way.” Lottie clicks her tongue in dismissal. “There’s no way—Louis, you’re like a fucking junkie. Remember how Liam was when— _you know_? Do you honestly think that’ll be enough—just once?”

“Yes,” Louis’ eyebrows furrow. “Yes, of course; I’ve never wanted anyone more than once. It’ll be enough.” It _has_ to be enough, there are no other options.

Lottie frowns and crosses her arms over her chest, glancing at the bright city outside. “Lou, it’s like—Harry is a drug, okay? And you’ve had a nice taste of him; do you think you won’t want to go back for more? How do you think addicts become addicted? Although you think he’s probably at home right now, his heart aching for you, it’s not like that— _he_ has his hooks in _you_ , you were the one who took the bait, and now look at where you are.”

“What the hell are you even talking about?” Louis asks, scandalized, his mind racing.

“This man has you in the palm of his hand, he— _god_ , someone has Louis Tomlinson wrapped around their little finger!” She exclaims with a loud grin. “I have to meet him.”

Louis frowns. “Okay...” he looks out to the dining room, glancing around for their waiter. “You’re talking crazy now; we need to get some food in you.”

“It’s like, instinct. Pure, alpha male behavior,” Lottie says with a nod, like any of that would make sense to Louis.

“Just because you took summer physiology courses at Northwestern does not mean you actually know what you’re talking about. Stop analyzing me or whatever it is that you’re doing!”

Lottie folds her hands over the table and smiles. “Just. Think of it like the jungle, like I said before. You’re usually the lion—strong and proud and untamable, but the poor guy you usually hunt is like, for example, a gazelle. Louis Tomlinson, I think you’ve just met your match. Harry isn’t an idiot, he’s challenging you. How many times have you tried your awful tricks on him?”

“Twice,” he admits lowly. Louis regrets ever asking for help; this is why he never does it—it always bites him back in the ass.

“You’re screwed,” Lottie says as she sips on her drink. “Harry is good, giving you a run for your money.”

“I am _not_ screwed,” Louis protests. “I just need one fuck, and then I’ll let him go. But that’s the problem; I don’t know how to get that far. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”

“I’m not going to help you break this guy’s heart, Lou, I won’t do it.”

“I just need to know what I’m doing wrong, ‘s all.”

Lottie rolls her eyes for what might be the twentieth time since they’ve sat down. With the patience given to a five year old, she leans forward and speaks slowly. “You’re being _you_ , and that’s where you keep going askew.”

“Me?” He laughs and shakes his head in incredulity. “Who else am I supposed to be? Is there any other way for me to act then myself?”

“You could try being a gentleman for once. Maybe, I don’t know, just a suggestion: you can try to be nice and pleasant. That tends to work often.”

“I am a gentleman,” Louis assures.

“No, you’re not. You’re patronizing and egotistical, always wanting to seem dominate over everyone,” Lottie replies in a surly tone. “You’ve been challenged and you have not a clue on how to act about it. You’re one hungry lion.”

“There is no shame in being hungry for another person, Charlotte.” He picks a string loose on the cloth napkin in front of him. “Harry—he’s different. I need help, I don’t know… He’s different, special, never met anyone like him before.”

His sister nods and looks at him with the same blue eyes, like she understands what he means, all the mumbo jumbo that even _he_ doesn’t get as it flows out of his mouth. “If you want to get the guy, you need to act like a right, proper boyfriend.”

Louis blanches at the word. “Boyfriend? I don’t want _that_ , just one nice fuck!” He sounds like a broken record by now; the words are quickly becoming his mantra. _Just one fuck, just one time, just once, that’s it, just one fuck, I’ll go my way, then._

“I don’t understand why you keep saying that,” Lottie comments with slight confusion written on her young face. “You keep saying _one time_ , but your actions say more. Have you thought about this, _really_ thought about it, Louis? You’re _chasing_ him; you’re going mad over him. I’ve never seen—is he that special?”

“No,” he blurts out and regrets it immediately, a heavy feeling weighing in on his chest. “I mean, no, I don’t know—yes?” he stutters.

Lottie is silent, taking in his abrupt response with wide, round eyes. He feels scrutinized underneath her glare, like an onion root on a microscope in a biology lab. “This is completely priceless,” she says at last. “All the tables have turned and you’re the one cowering like an ambushed gazelle. If you don’t do something soon, you will lose him.”

“So what? I just need to be fucking nice to him and he’ll put out?” He deadpans with a grimace. “Treat him right, like a gentleman, until I get what I want?”

The young blonde shrugs. “Look, a normal man would never put this much effort for just one night, but you—you’re fucking weird, so I’m just going to roll with this whole thing until you come to your senses and realize what a complete idiot you are—“

“I’m not _weird—_ “

“—but, yes, that’s basically it. Flatter him, okay? Take him out to nice places, pay for dinners, enjoy a movie, and lavish him with expensive gifts. Just—try and be normal for once. Go about the whole thing like any ordinary man. You’ve done the whole dating thing, Lou, c’mon, I remember.”

“When I was eighteen!” Louis tries to defend himself. “And there was always the guarantee of getting laid. I would be going in there blind, now.”

“Maybe it’s time you give someone a chance.”

“I don’t take _chances_ , Lottie. I plan and calculate until I’m positive everything will go as planned. How can I take a chance if I don’t know the outcome?”

“That’s what taking chances is all about,” Lottie says quietly. “It’s a risk you’re willing to take, a risk that matters. Sometimes all you need is courage, not calculations and probabilities. No risk, no reward, like Ma says.”

Their lunch comes moments after and Louis is thankful for the time Lottie has her mouth stuffed of chicken and lettuce. He knows his younger sister is right; you have to play the game in order to win. He knows all about history and how it always favored those risk-takers, forgetting completely about the timid and weak; the ones who did nothing while others started wars. There’s nothing wrong with planning and scheduling, but nothing great ever comes planned calculations, and he can sit and think about Harry all he wants, and he can sit and think about ways to win him over, but while he sits and thinks, someone else might already be putting his words into action.

 _Just one fuck_ , that’s all he really needs. Just one time with Harry, and he'll be satiated. What Lottie says can't be true, he's not an addict and Harry isn't drug, and for God's sake, he hasn't even had a taste. Not yet, anyway.

 

 


	8. Work Hard and Play Hard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Not mine.

 

* * *

 

_“Our doubts are traitors, and make us lose the good we often might win, by fearing to attempt.”  ― William Shakespeare, Measure for Measure_

 

It’s Monday night and all he can do is lie on his small, twin bed and stare up at the stars that glow on his ceiling. Gluing things to the walls and ceilings are prohibited in dorm rooms, but he needed something to remind him of home so badly, and he’s had glow in the dark stars on his bedroom ceiling back in Cambridge since he was eight. They glow bright green in the otherwise dark room, and he can't for the life of him turn his brain off and go to sleep.

Why is it, Harry wonders, that every time he tries to do good, it always blows up in his face, comes back and bites him in the ass? It’s been three days, seventy-two whole hours, and he can’t stop thinking about _him_ , about his eyes that are probably brighter than the stars, and his smile that’s bigger than the moon outside his window. Harry’s been making an effort, he truly has, but he can’t control what he dreams about, can’t help the way Louis’ handsome, devilish face always finds him in the dead of the night.

He’s been making an effort, but his conscience keeps drifting back to Friday night at _Z’s Grill_ , and his stupid date with Taylor, and _Louis_. Why didn’t the older man seem surprised to see him at the restaurant? Why did he act so similar to that time on the beach, like everything was planned and recited?  Maybe because everything _is_ premeditated, maybe because Louis Tomlinson has an end goal, and Harry shouldn’t be so naive. He’s the prize, somehow, the goal Louis is desperately trying to reach, and he did nothing but confirm his doubts as soon as he slipped that business card into his palm. It’s all just a game.

Harry really wants to believe that he just wants to play, too, but he knows it’s more. He knows it’s more than a loud physical attraction. He knows all about men like Louis—he’s been there to pick up his sister after bad breakups and his mother after a nasty divorce; there is no changing someone like Louis Tomlinson, there is no fixing him, and either way, it’s not his job to do so. Of course the physical attraction is strong, and hell, he’s said it before and he’ll say it again: he’d have no problem sleeping with the man. It wouldn’t be an easy task though, for he’s always believed sex is between two people very much in love, and he’s pretty sure Louis doesn’t even know what that word means.

He’s not sure if Louis Tomlinson is worth it.

Harry’s not looking for a serious relationship, not at all, but he’d rather not get dumped on his ass after a night in between the older man’s sheets. He just needs to keep away, needs to keeps his distance, and hopefully never see him ever again, because otherwise he might easily fall into a trap. He loves being an independent man who doesn’t need any guy, but his walls crumble too easily and the line he’s walking on is already too thin, something incredibly dangerous. Games can be fun, obviously, and you can win some, or you can lose some. Harry has a feeling if he plays Louis’ game, he could end up hurt.

What if—what if someone turns the tables around on him? What if, Harry thinks, someone plays Louis’ game and beats him at it? Can _he_ do that? Can Harry himself beat Louis Tomlinson at his own game; give him a taste of his own bitter medicine? Louis would never see it coming, never suspect a thing—he would be caught so off guard, it would be priceless.

But can Harry actually do it? Can he let Louis play his tricks on him, let him fuck his mind with those well thought-out, sultry phrases that send shivers up his spine? If he is strong enough, Harry could give into his advances; lead him on, and at the last second flip the game around, switching their positions so that he’s the one with the upper hand. What Harry wouldn’t give for that—to have Louis want him just like he wants him.

“Why not?” Harry asks the room. “I could pull this off if I tried.”

He can lure him in. He doesn’t know if he’ll sleep with him or not, but he likes knowing that he’ll be the one dealing the cards, has the ability to leave him high and dry or go all the way. He wonders if Louis has ever worked for anything in his life, and if not, he’ll start with Harry. What the hell is Louis going to do once he realizes Harry isn’t like the other boys he picks up at clubs like _Fiction_ , eager and ready to please?

He knows his plan is cruel and devious and that his mom would be so disappointed if, for some odd reason, she ever found out about it, but men like Louis Tomlinson make his blood boil for many different reasons. He wouldn’t have given the older man the time of day if it wasn’t for his drop-dead gorgeous looks—and yes, he knows he’s wrong there, too—but the way he acts is such a turn-off, and no, Harry won’t ever be able to change his ways, but maybe a cold dose of his own medicine might. The man probably thinks of Harry like a withering flower, ready to drop on his knees for him. (Harry feels shame trudge through his body when he realizes that, yes, if Louis hadn’t acted like such a dick, he would’ve definitely fallen on his knees for him.)

Harry goes over his plan once more in his head, and for the first time in days, falls into a deep, warm slumber.

When his alarm goes off bright ad early seven hours later, he awakes with a smile and stretches his long arms over his head. His mind races back to the plan he conceived late last night and smiles even broader; if he can keep up his act, then Louis Tomlinson will get played like never before.  He has a new bounce in his step as he climbs out of bed and rushes over to his tiny bathroom to shower, before going over to his even smaller closet to pick out his usual black skinny jeans and a patterned-button up.  By the time his new boots are on and his hair is left loose to air-dry, he’s certain Perrie is waiting for him at the diner for breakfast.

He throws his bag over a shoulder and steps into the elevator with more vigor than before he even moved to Chicago. When he gets to the crowded diner, Perrie is already sitting in their favored booth, her long, blonde hair pulled back in a wavy, high ponytail, completely enthralled in her Jane Austen book.  He slides in across from her and picks at a warm hash brown on a plate. “Good morn—“

“Shh!” Perrie hisses, holding up a hand without looking up from _Sense and Sensibility_. “Don’t talk, I need to finish this chapter.”

A cheerful waiter comes by to take their order, but Perrie is still engrossed with her reading assignment, so Harry orders their usual along with more hash browns and orange juice. She shuts the book once a steamy plate of waffles is placed in front of her and lets out a loud huff. “I’ve got this stupid test I completely forgot about. Like, I want to study music, not books, so why the fuck do I have to read so much?”

“You only have a year after this, Per,” Harry shrugs through a mouthful of strawberry Danish. “You got it in the bag.”

Perrie narrows her eyes at him. “Okay, what’s up with you? You seem— _off_ , this morning.”

Harry shrugs again, “I dunno what you’re talking about. Had a nice sleep last night, is all. How did you sleep?”

“Did you sleep warm after jerking off to thoughts of a naked Louis?” Perrie grins widely, pink lipstick much too bright for such an early morning.

“Nope,” Harry replies simply after sips of his freshly-squeezed OJ. “Didn’t even think of him,” he fibs.

Perrie only rolls her eyes and starts chattering about how different her life would’ve been if she had just gotten in Julliard like planned, how she would be living life to the fullest in the Big Apple like her idol, Carrie Bradshaw, complaining about getting out of the small city that is Chicago. Harry can only frown, thinking about how lost he would be in such a chaotic city like New York, coming from a small Massachusetts town.

They part ways soon thereafter, and hours later, Harry finds himself on one of the lush, green quads of the Evanston campus, his back against a tree trunk, facing the lake. His worn copy of _1984_ is on his lap, completely intrigued by the protagonist, Winston, and his new love interest, Julia, who might be member of the _Thought Police_. He’s thinking about what the books enthralls, about living in totalitarianism, when his phone lights up and vibrates angrily on the grass besides him.

It doesn’t ring much, considering his lack of friends in the new city, and the number on the screen isn’t one Harry recognizes. He hesitates for two more beats before answering cautiously. “Hello?”

“ _Um_ , _hi?_ ” A raspy voice answers and Harry holds his breath. “ _Is this Harry? Styles?_ ”

 _God_ , Louis is making it so much easier for his plan to unfold than Harry had pictured. This is better than what he expected; Louis Tomlinson calling _him_ , out of all people, and, okay, he knows that the man wants him, but he wasn’t sure just how much. Initiating contact with him must mean something, maybe he does want him severely, maybe almost the same amount of want Harry has. “Yes,” Harry grins into the phone, “this is he.” He wonders if it’s possible to hear the biggest grin ever to be produced, over the phone.

There’s a few moments of silence, but then Louis is clearing his throat on the other line. “ _How are you_?” he asks rather awkwardly and—nervous. He sounds nervous, out of all things, to speak with Harry. How can he be nervous?

“I’m peachy, thank you. Is there something I can help you with?” He tries to not be endeared by the hesitation in the man’s voice, and instead musters up all the annoyance he can to tone his voice. Harry’s always been a shit actor, but it’s not necessarily acting if it’s over the phone, right?

“ _Oh—oh, no, that’s alright_ ,” Louis rushes out. “ _I just kept asking myself if you got home alright, on Friday night, was a bit worried._ ”

“Mhm, I sure did. _Taylor_ , my date, you remember her, right? She was so kind, we had a real blast. Great, great time, might do it again soon.” _Never in a million years_.

Louis mutters something incoherent under his breath. Here the older man is, calling up Harry to _check up_ after his date, like a jealous—a jealous _something_ , just like they’re back in high school, which in reality, is perfect for Harry’s new plan. As sexy as a jealous Louis is, Harry needs to keep his head in the game and focus. It’s obvious he doesn’t know what he’s doing, has never been in the position he is right now, and Harry’s not going to do anything but take Louis’ vulnerable stage for his own advancement.

“ _And how’s school? I bet you’re having fun._ ” Louis asks, his voice stronger than before, and _ah_ , there is the Louis Tomlinson he’s met several times before.

“Fine,” Harry answers shortly. “I’m adjusting wonderfully to my new routine.”

“ _Ah—that’s…good._ ”

There’s more silence from both ends and Harry is quick to bite down on his fist to keep from bursting into laughter. If it wasn’t as clear as day before, it certainly is now: Louis has no idea what he’s doing. There’s no doubt in Harry’s mind that the young business mogul is used to getting everything he wants without struggle. “Is there an actual reason you called, or was it just to waste my time?” Harry clips, and as much as it hurts him to speak to someone in such a crass way, he only needs to think about he was treated at the beach and _Z’s Grill_ to be reminded of why he’s doing it in the first place.

“ _Oh, uh—no_ ,” he stammers. “ _I—_?”

Harry is about to open his mouth, say something so rude like, _spit it out already_ , when a female voice catches his attention. He shifts from where he’s leaning on the tree trunk and looks around, but everyone around him has their noses stuffed in books or ears stuffed with earphones. He hears the voice again, coming from the other side of the phone, coming from—there’s a _female_ with Louis. He shouldn’t feel green from head to toe from that, it could be his mom, or one of his many sisters, or— _why_ is there a woman with him?

He feels foolish anger raise in him at the thought of Louis with a woman, and _whoa_. Louis is still stuttering, but from the background he hears the woman repeating several lines; “ _Ask him on a date, you idiot_!”

 _Oh_. So he’s being coached, then, is he? Harry beams and the little green monster on his shoulder disappears. Louis genuinely believes he’s going to win this little game of two, doesn’t he? He doesn’t even know what com—

“ _I just wanted to know if you’d like to accompany me to dinner_ ,” he finally says and it sounds like he gritting through his teeth.

“Louis, listen—I got to go to class, but—“

“ _But_?”

“Yeah,” Harry bites back a grin, “Yeah, _no_ , I don’t think that’ll ever happen.” Without a second thought, before he can chicken out and say _yes yes yes_ , he hangs up. His phone is silent in his hand and it takes a couple moments for everything to sink it. He just said _no_ to a date with Louis Tomlinson, how fucking potent is his willpower? He laughs brightly; causing a few heads to snap up, and punches a fist through the air. “Yes! Phase one: complete!”

Louis is a relentless man, and from the few times Harry has met him, he knows he doesn’t back down easily, but what he wasn’t expecting was for him to call every hour for the rest of the day since Harry’s small victory on the quad. Harry decides to accept his date, but only after making him sweat it out a little bit, even thinks as far as going and bruising his ego a tiny amount by calling him and accepting, but he decides against it.

By now, in an odd sense, Harry feels like he kinda, well—like he kind of _knows_ the Tomlinson man. At least knows what he’s planning. He knows that the twenty-four year old plans on playing him until Harry relents, giving into his charm, or whatever else he’s going to use to impress him, like his stupid, blue eyes and fit body. But that’s where his powers stop, because from then on, Harry is the one playing the game with an upper hand.

When it comes time to go back to Louis’ place, the latter will believe that Harry is willing and eager, only to realize he’s going to milk him for all he’s worth and string him out for as long as he can (which won’t be more than a week, tops, his willpower isn’t _that_ strong). After a week or so, Harry will give in, but on his terms or nothing, that way it won’t—hurt as bad, and the man will get to taste what he normally dishes out. The whole thing makes him feel like an evil scientist, he’s not sure he likes it too much.

That night, while comfortable in a pair of boxer shorts and nothing else, Harry decides to answer Louis’ next call. The man has been ringing him every three hours on the dot, which should make his next call soon.  It’s late, the sky dark blue outside, so it might be his last call for the day and Harry doesn’t want to miss him.

“ _Harry, hi,_ ” is the first thing Louis says. “ _I’ve been, uh, trying to reach you._ ”

Harry hums nonchalantly. “Mhm, yeah, been a bit busy with school and all. What’s happening?”

“ _I know what you mean, Tuesday’s are always a drag. I’ve been rather occupied myself,_ ” he says casually, like he didn’t call Harry every other hour or so all damn day. “ _How was your day_?”

“It was alright, nothing too important. You?”

“ _If we’re going to be honest with each other,_ ” Louis starts with a strong voice, somewhat cocky, reminding the younger boy of the man he met at the beach. “ _Than I’ll admit I’ve been thinking of foul-proof ways to ask you out again._ No _just isn’t in my vocabulary_.”

Harry rolls his eyes up to the green stars on his ceiling. “And have you found a way yet?”

“ _Styles, you’re a very interesting boy_ ,” is what Louis says in return.

“As are you, Tomlinson.”

“ _You’re just very unique, I’ve never met anyone quiet like you_ ,” he continues, voice almost awe-like, and Harry has to fight the creeping heat on his cheeks. “ _I’ve never… gone this far for someone before._ ”

Harry can’t help but chuckle, “It’s pretty obvious.”

Louis laughs and Harry feels his heart drop to his toes in one big _swoosh_. “ _You’re a challenge, we both know that, but I’m willing to play, lay all my cards down. Let me take you out to dinner._ ”

“Uh,” he pretends to think it over, twirling a lock of hair in between two fingers. “I don’t know… I don’t think I can.” There’s nothing else he’d rather do and nowhere else he’d rather be, than sitting across from Louis, watching the candlelight play with his sharp features.

“ _Yes, you can. What do you say, how about eight? Tomorrow?_ ”

Tomorrow? He was expecting Friday, but clearly someone’s eager. “I don’t know, Louis…”

“ _Better yet, let’s do it at seven, it works best for me. I’ll pick you up._ ”

“Pick me—you don’t even know where I live! Why don’t we meet somewhere instead?”

“ _So that’s a yes, then?_ ” Harry can hear his damn smirk from across the phone. “ _And don’t worry about it, I’ll figure it out_.” He hangs up abruptly, without a single farewell, like Harry had done hours ago, and oh, okay, he has a date with Louis Tomlinson tomorrow at seven.

He’s kind of stunned, phone still in one hand. This is a big, big problem. And it definitely freaks him out how easily people find out where he lives; first Taylor, and now Louis? He wasn’t expecting the blue eyed man to come back so strongly, such a force to be reckoned with, but he’s not going to give in too quickly, either, not letting him turn his vital organs into mush.

He plugs his phone into the charger and snuggles underneath the covers, tiny bed suddenly feeling so large without someone to cuddle with. He falls asleep quickly, dreams sans Louis, but filled with panic about what to wear for the date.

 

He almost sends a vivid bushel of yellow roses tumbling over in their fancy, crystal vase. He shrieks and steps back into his room just in time to stop from knocking it over with his foot, but who the hell leaves their flowers right outside someone’s doorway? He peeks his head out into the hallway but the area is empty, so with a giddy heart, he picks up the blooming flowers and shuffles back into his room. There has to be around two dozen sharp, buttery roses in the vase, all in full bloom with the petals opened wide, giving the small room a fresh, clean, soft scent.

Harry places them on his desk, right underneath the window for some sunlight, and notices a small, white envelope in between some petals. He opens it up and his jaw drops. No boy has ever sent him flowers before, not ever but Louis—he did, and a shitload of _roses_ , of all things.

_Looking forward to tonight, I bet you’ll look beautiful like always. Yellow roses, look it up. –Louis_

The message is short and to the point, but eerie in all of its simplicity. How the hell did he get into the dorms in the first place, how the _hell_ does he know where Harry lives? It’s impossible to walk up to the building and get in, not with security at the door and without a student ID, so just how did Louis manage? He could’ve just asked the security to drop them in front of the door, but isn’t that going a little out of his way, especially for just a dinner? But what the hell does Harry know, really, they’ve only met three times and Louis just wants to get laid.

He plucks a long stemmed rose from the bunch and presses the silky material against his nose, inhaling the sweet scent. _That’s not fair_. Harry _loves_ flowers, so how did Louis know? He just doesn’t seem like the type to send dozens of roses to everyone of his conquests, although he did admit Harry was like no one he ever met before… Maybe he shouldn’t have underestimated him, because so far, he’s playing a good game. One point to Tomlinson.

He’s running late for breakfast with Perrie, but he sits down on his freshly-made bed and pulls up Google search, typing in _yellow roses_. All flowers are gorgeous, especially roses, but he’s not truly a big fan of the gold ones, always thought they were the type to bring to a sick aunt in the hospital.

 _Yellow roses, in their unassuming charm and sweet simplicity, send out an equally alluring message_ , he reads _._ _The wealth of meaning in a yellow rose lies in its delicate shade of sunny yellow, a color of richness, warmth and joy._ _Yellow roses are given to celebrate new beginnings._

The last sentence is all it takes for his walls to come crashing down like a badly constructed Jenga tower. New beginnings? One second and one sentence is all it takes for his brain to only process one thing: _What if_. What if it’s not all a game and Louis actually does like him? What if he’s actually really looking forward to the date and it’s not all about getting into his pants? What if he’s trying to be a better person, or what if— _no_.

No, of course not, no way. It _is_ a game, and he’s foolish to think he can beat the master in one single move, that the creator has changed his ways. Louis knows exactly what he’s doing, or at least the woman with him the other day, his probable-coach, knows what she’s doing. Maybe Harry has taken on too much, maybe the load is too heavy for his shoulders, because if the date hasn’t even begun yet, and Louis is already knifing his way through his defense system, then he doesn’t want to know how he’ll be at the end, when it’s all over.

“You can’t do this to yourself,” Harry breaths out into the room, glaring at the now offensive roses. “You can’t fall for a man like him, you can’t do that. You have a goal and you need to seek it out.”

 

“What’s wrong with you _now_?” Perrie asks with a dramatic sigh. “Do you PMS? Can guys do that?”

“Louis called me last night. We talked and stuff,” he states, getting it all out of the way.

“What?” She shrieks and stops walking immediately, causing a student behind her to stumble over his own feet in order to not crash into the petite blonde. Her mouth gapes open, “What did you do! What did you say! What did _he_ say!”

“He kinda, well, basically,” Harry hesitates. “Asked me out to dinner. Tonight.”

Her big, blue eyes somehow get bigger, and she flails her arms around, shrieking lowly. “He did _not!_ Louis Tomlinson!” She pauses for a second and tilts her head. “Huh, I didn’t even know he was into dick.”

“I don’t think you’re supposed to know that,” he mutters and drags her by the arm to their regular booth. “He sent me two dozen yellow roses, too, found them outside my door this morning with a note saying he was looking forward to our date.”

Perrie coos. “ _Aww_ , Harry, he _likes_ you!”

“No, he doesn’t,” Harry exclaims with a snap in his voice. “He always uses boys like trash. I bet this is like, his mating ritual.”

“Or maybe _not_ , Harry, you big poop. Maybe he does actually like you and you’re not giving him chance,” Perrie declares exasperatedly. “Either way, just enjoy yourself. I mean, c’mon— _Louis Tomlinson_! He’s hot as fuck, like the most eligible bachelor in the city, so—“

“Third most eligible—“

“—just have fun, okay. Listen to Perrie, Perrie is always right.”

“For all you know, I could’ve turned him down.” He scowls into his menu.

“Oh, _Harry._ ” Perrie gives him a doubtful, sickeningly sweet smile. “Harry, it’s Louis Tomlinson, you don’t turn him down.”

 

The rest of the day has Harry sweating nervously and his stomach churning. After lunch, where he could only pick sadly through his salad, he dials the number Louis called with a million times yesterday and throws pebbles into the lake while he waits. After the talk with Perrie and the roses and _new beginnings_ , he just can’t do it, he can’t. He doesn’t know what he’s going to say when Louis picks up, or how he’s going to worm his way out of the date, but he doesn’t want to make it seem like he’s blowing the man off…even if he might be.

As much as he wants to avenge all the other boys, just like Harry, who were used by the real estate star, he know he’s in too deep and that now is his only chance to bail without it hurting. Louis is a _pro_ , he knows what he’s doing, he’s done it a hundred times before Harry and he’ll continue doing it after Harry’s long gone, and he—he’s just a teenager, an amateur, one who can’t afford to get his heart broken. While he was trying to turn the tables on Louis, Louis turned the tables on _him_. He can’t go anywhere from there.

Louis doesn’t pick up, nor does he answer the next two times Harry calls. He leaves him a message exclaiming how sorry he is to cancel their date, but it’s just not a good time for him, that he has tests to study for, the typical life of a university student, and that once again, he’s sorry for ruining his night. The man doesn’t reply to his voice mail or any of his calls, doesn’t even shoot off a quick text, and that makes Harry’s already frazzled nerves go haywire.

Why didn’t he call? Was _that_ another game, to just leave him hanging like that? What would’ve happened if he hadn’t cancelled their date, would he have left him planted? _Did he give up on Harry_? It amazes him how quickly Louis turned the whole game around; causing Harry to embrace a fake persona, an ego with confidence, one who thinks he can take on a notorious, knowing older man, to easily deflating back to his original, confused, flustered teenage self.

So he sits at his computer desk and watches the angry, red numbers on his clock. He half-expects, half-hopes, that Louis will come pounding on his door with his usual leer, going on and on about how cancelling dates is not acceptable, before pushing Harry out the door. He even lets his mind wander, day dreaming about Louis throwing pebbles at his window and expressing his fond for the younger boy before climbing up the tree outside and jumping through the window. But that doesn’t happen; no one shows up at this door at seven p.m., and no one calls at eight either.

Nothing happens at nine, or ten, or eleven.

Not a single call or even a silly text saying that Louis accepts his apology for cancelling the date, nothing. Silence.

 

There isn’t a bounce in his step the next morning and he forgoes a shower, instead yanks a beanie over his matted curls. He gets dressed slowly, with no energy whatsoever, but then there are goose bumps covering his arms, and he gets an erratic urge to check the hallway. He trips over a an abandoned headscarf on the way to the door and hits his knee against the corner of his bed, but seeing another bushel of yellow roses, exact to the ones found yesterday morning, in his hallway after he yanks the door open, makes the throbbing pain less noticeable.  He grins and brings the roses back to his desk, throwing textbooks onto his bed to make space for the glass vase.

They’re the same yellow roses as the previous ones, all blooming with cloud-soft, vivid yellow petals with a small amount of dew, and long stems. The note in the new bushel is just as simple as the previous one:

_It’s a shame we couldn’t have our long awaited dinner last night, but how about tonight at the same time? If I don’t hear from you before then, I’ll assume that it’s a no, and I’ll go on my way. Good luck on your test, I know you’ll nail it. –Louis_

 

“Why am I being punished?” Harry whispers into the skin of the one, single rose he picked out from the bushel. “Louis, why me?’

He calls him on his way to the diner, but like the night before, there’s no answer. Instead, he leaves a message, suddenly feeling a bit giddy and excited about the date tonight, and it probably transfers onto the voicemail. He has to remind himself just who exactly he’s going on a date with, someone who only wants to wine and dine (and sixty-nine) him. He has to win this war, has to remember that no matter how many dozens of roses show up at his doorstep or how blue Louis’ eyes are or how sweet his smile is, it’s just a game—none of it is real.

Louis sends him a Whatsapp message two hours later, where his icon picture looks sinful, and states that he’ll be waiting at seven o’clock sharp. Okay, then.

 

“It’s really just a dinner, so I don’t want to wear anything _too_ fancy. What if I’m overdressed, or worse,  _under-dressed_?”

“You have a _boyfriend_ ,” Perrie sings playfully from where she stands by the bed, rifling through shopping bags that Harry prays aren’t filled with clothes for him. “Harry and Louis, sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g! First comes _looove_ , second comes marriage, then comes baby in a ba—“

“Perrie!” Harry cackles, throwing a black, sheer top at his friend, which misses by miles. “Louis is _not_ my boyfriend, you know that. He likes me, okay, but once he gets what he wants, he’ll leave me alone.” Which is what he’s frightened of.

“God,” the blonde groans. “You’re such a Debby Downer, why the hell am I still friends with you?”

“Because you need someone to pretend to be your boyfriend when old men hit on you at bars?”

Perrie pouts. “Okay, _true_. But no, seriously, H, I really think he likes you, I mean, he’d be stupid not to. Have you seen you? I know about these kind of things.”

“No, I don’t think you do,” Harry laughs again, much quieter, and shifts through his closet. “Look, once we get a few good fucks out of our system, he’ll want nothing to do with me. That’ll be all.”

“Harry Styles!” Perrie gasps. “You’re going to let him fuck you? You _slut_!”

“ _Hey_ ,” Harry whines. “Not on the first night, of course. And you never know; _I_ might be fucking _him_.”

Perrie raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “Really, you? Do you _really_ think so? Anyway, I don’t know how you lasted so long, I would’ve jumped his bones ages ago.”

“Dunno, he kinda expects me to just fall onto my back. Maybe after a few dinners, we’ll see. He might get lucky.”

Perrie stares at him for a few silent moments before she groans loudly and throws herself onto a pile of clothes on the bed. “ _Harry_ , please tell me you’re not doing what I think you’re doing! Are you for real trying to teach Louis Tomlinson, of all people, a lesson right now?”

“What’s so wrong with that?” Harry gives a thwarting squeak of protest.

 “Trust me,” Perrie says softly with a frown, “you won’t win. Men like him don’t stop until they get what they want, and they much less ever lose at their own fights. He’s already getting to you.” Her eyes shift over to the bushel of roses on the desk.

He gets dressed rather quickly, throwing on a sheer, black top—that Perrie leaves unbuttoned enough to show his tits, the cool, thin fabric presenting his tattoos—a black blazer, and equally dark slacks with his new YSL boots. His hair is too long for a quiff, so he ties a white, silk headscarf around it to keep it out of his eyes.

“You look like you belong in _American Horror Story: The Coven._ You’re missing your big ass, black hat. No, no, don’t—Harry, you’re not wearing it today. I think you’re good to go, with—seven minuets to spare.”

“I look alright?”

Perrie makes a noise at the back of her throat, almost offended that Harry is asking such a silly question. “Of course you do! Babe, I swe—“

“Good enough for a date with Louis Tomlinson?” Harry asks bashfully, ducking his head.

“Aw,” Perrie coos, patting his cheeks. “The real question is if _he’s_ good enough for a date with Harry Styles. Now come here!” She holds an arm open and shakes a small nail polish bottle in one hand.

“I don’t know,” Harry hesitates, looking down at his bare fingernails. Louis hadn’t said anything that night when he picked up his hand and examined the bright red rouge color, but—but he hadn’t said _anything_ about it, so how is Harry supposed to know if it’s a good or bad thing? What if he finds it weird? What if he thinks Harry, with his large nail polish collection and several lipstick tubes in his vanity, or his tiny, flower earrings, is too weird? What if he doesn’t like what is such a big part of Harry?

“This is who you are,” Perrie sends him a soft look. “If he can’t appreciate that, then fuck him. Like Einstein said; those who mind don’t matter, and those who matter don’t mind.” She tugs on his arm until he’s sitting on the bed, watching with bright, green eyes as she carefully paints his nail beds.

“Uh, Per, I’m sure Dr. Seuss said that, not Albert Einstein.” Harry giggles into the palm of his hand as he watches the light, baby pink color on his nails shimmer underneath the light. They wait in silence as the polish dries, but he’s shooting off the bed when the numbers on his alarm clock catch his eye. “Fuck,” he cries, “I’m late!”

He says a hastily goodbye to his friend and rushes down the hall to the elevator, where he’s able to squeeze through the doors just as they were closing. The elevator takes its sweet time, even with his impatient foot tapping, and what if Louis sees that he’s not showing up and decides to leave? Six minutes past seven or not, Harry hates being late. When the doors finally ding open, he nearly trips over his own feet, but it doesn’t even matter how clumsy he is or how foolish he’s being, because Louis Tomlinson isn’t there.

He’s not waiting in front of the building like he said he would be, and Harry feels his heart crashing into his rib cage violently from the disappointment. It’s ten after seven; he didn’t miss him, did he?  No, of course now, Louis has plans bigger than his own, he wouldn’t purposefully miss his chance. The second his butt hits the wooden bench, his ears hear the thunderous roar that can only belong to a car, and yep, sure enough when Harry looks up, he sees a sleek, black car trying to honk a path through the mesmerized students on the street.

The car startles Harry as it screeches to a stop right in front of him and he can only watch with wide eyes the doors open upwards, and Louis Tomlinson and his entire glory step out with out a care in the world, completely ignoring the students drooling over his car. Instead of a young real estate agent, he looks like a sculpted super model, and that does funny things to Harry’s insides. He can only stare with his mouth wide open as Louis makes his way over to the bench.

He’s dressed in a navy blue blazer and matching slacks, with a white dress shirt underneath. His hair is styled up, in a small quiff, and his lips look so pink, that Harry just wants to throw himself on top of the man. Sadly, his eyes are covered by a pair of gold Ray-Bans, but his smile is blinding as he saunters over with too much authority and very little regard towards anything else.

“Harry,” he breathes out and reaches for his hand, running a thumb over his shiny, pink nails before lifting it up to his lips. Harry stops breathing. “You look stunning tonight.”

He bites down on his tongue from blurting out something ridiculous, and instead remembers the game plan. “You’re late,” he says snidely. “Could you have drawn more attention?” He glances at the glossy sports car.

“I thought you’d like it,” he laughs, turning to his car. “I was originally going to bring the Spyder, but I didn’t want to scare you off, so I brought this baby here. Can’t ever go wrong with classic German engineering.”

“Uh, right,” Harry nods, curls bouncing along. He _is_ glad Louis didn’t bring a spider. “Should we get going?”

Louis seems to agree and leads him towards the flashy automobile, placing a hand on the small of Harry’s back, his touch burning the soft skin there, sending electricity shooting up and down his bloodstream.  “I feel bad that we couldn’t go out the other night,” the man admits.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says earnestly. “I had to study last night.”

“I understand.” Louis gives him a small, close-lipped smile and rubs his thumb over the burning skin. With the sheer fabric, it almost feels as though his hand is touching Harry’s skin. It scorches so nicely. “You’re at a very critical point in your studies, all about looking for jobs or maybe considering graduate school. It’s tough.”

Harry furrows his eyebrows. Is he? “I am?”

“Aren’t you?” Louis gives him a look. “You’re a junior, right? I just assumed—you were at _Fiction_ , and I—“

“Yes!” Harry ducks his head to avoid being seen with flushing cheeks. He’s an awful, terrible, shit liar. He can’t lie to save his life. And now this game—it’s all about lying, how in the world will he pull it off? Besides that, he completely forgot that Louis thinks he’s older, which means the man didn’t look at his driver’s license after all. “Yes, I’m—I’ve been so busy, I forgot. Forgot I’m—yes.”

When they’re near the car, the alarm beeps and like flies, all the students that were once surrounding it scatter and the doors shoot straight up, not horizontally like any other car. Harry runs a finger over the glossy paint job, feeling the cool material underneath his hot touch. A car like this must’ve cost several pretty pennies, and he bets it could pay not only for his, but for his sister’s tuition, too.  “It’s very… beautiful.”

Louis chuckles. “Just one of many, I’m an avid collector. Here,” Louis holds his hand out and waits patiently for Harry’s traitor, trembling one to clasp into his, before helping him into the car. He shuts the door softy behind him and makes his way around the car.

Harry uses this time to lean forward and duck his head in between his knees, breathing in and out forcefully, and quickly snaps back up when Louis’ door opens. He watches silently as the man settles in, shoots him a quick, crooked grin, closes the door; all moves so smooth and quick. He watches how Louis doesn’t get a set of keys out, but instead just presses an index to a ring behind the steering wheel, and like soft magic, the car purrs and all the lights on the dashboard start to glow.

“Where’re we going tonight?” Harry asks as casually as he can, tries not to sound affected by sole sexiness that Louis’ hundred thousand dollar car is. He remembers reading somewhere that a car tells a lot about a person, which must mean Louis is rich, flashy, and probably has a big dick. (Or maybe the cars and all the designer clothes are to make up for the fact his dick is actually tiny, which, God, Harry hopes not.)

“I’ve been planning this for a while now, trying to make it perfect,” Louis discloses, pulling off his aviators and hanging them on the neck of his dress shirt, turning to face Harry, who immediately feels under attack by the blue blue _blue_ of his eyes. It’s a good thing the windows are tinted, otherwise imagine the horror if Harry has to see them in the light of day.

It’s at the same moment, when his heart starts skipping over the sight of Louis’ eyes, that he remembers the article he read what feels like ages ago; where Louis said he likes a confident woman. Now, Harry might not be a woman, but he can be confident, and drooling over someone most likely doesn’t fall underneath that category. Louis _does_ like him, and he needs to use that for his own benefit.

“How long is a _while now_?” Harry raises an eyebrow at that. “Surely you can’t like me that much.

“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong, Harry, _bello_ ,” Louis grins. He speeds down the street, much to fast for a college campus, with only one hand on the wheel. “I find you incredibly intriguing, like I’ve mentioned before. Fascinating. I just can’t leave you alone,” he finishes with a smirk.

What the hell is a _bello_? Confident, confident, confident. “Maybe I shouldn’t have kept you waiting for so long…”

“That’s what I’ve been saying all along! You’re immensely stubborn. I realized you were quite— _different_ from everyone else I ever met, so I have to treat you more righteously.”

Harry can’t stop starring at him. He can’t look away, can’t stop watching the way his pink rose lips move everything he utters a syllable, or the way his long, dark brown eyelashes flutter against his cheekbones. He’s so incredibly beautiful, it’s not fair, not one bit. The way he feels towards Louis shouldn’t interfere with the game plan. “Your coach must have drilled you for tonight.”

Louis raises his curved brows. “My coach?”

“From the last two times we’ve met, I can’t help but assume you don’t know a thing about romance.”

“Wrong again, _bello_ ,” Louis laughs highly and presses down on the accelerator. “Johannah Tomlinson raised three very romantic boys, we just don’t show it off very often, but I’ll have you know we’re quite good at wooing.”

“Then why are you such a dick?” Harry blurts before he can even think about it. Oops. He doesn't give himself the chance to regret it.

“Because I can be,” Louis states simply.

It’s quiet again and Harry already misses the sound of Louis’ rasp.  “Where are we going,” he tries again. “You’re not going to kill me are you?”

“Don’t worry, Harry, if I wanted you dead, you already would be.” Louis jokes. “I’ve rented us a yacht.”

“You rented us a _yacht_ ,” Harry deadpans.

“Well, no, not exactly. It’s the family boat; I just rented us a captain. I can’t man the thing all by myself if I’m trying to romance you up,” he states. “My own boat is a bit smaller, but this being a first date and all, I thought I’d go all out.”

 “Fast cars, luxury yachts, obvious money shooting out of your ass,” Harry whistles lowly. “A man of James Bond-like proportions, aren’t you?”

 Louis titters at that. “With a bit more danger,” he winks and Harry dies on the spot.

Harry doesn’t ask anymore questions, just keeps a tight grip on his seat belt as his date swerves quickly around the slower cars on the highway.  He doesn’t know Chicago well enough yet to know exactly where they’re heading, but they’re driving right besides Lake Michigan.  It’s another fifteen minuets of silence and near-death driving, when they finally reach their destination: a parking lot.

“Where are we?” He asks as Louis slows the car down and stops.

“This is the Marina, where all the boats are docked.” He answers and unbuckles himself, getting out of the vehicle and rushing over to Harry’s side in a flash, where he opens his door and takes a hand in his. Might not know about romance, but at least chivalry doesn’t seem dead to Louis Tomlinson.

He doesn’t let go of his hand, not even when they reach the docks, where more than a hundred big blocks of white bobble in the water. The sun is falling quickly, and Harry’s being lead through the docks, rows and rows of boats all around them, some bigger and some smaller, but all incredibly impressive. As they go down a set of stairs, they yachts get more extreme, hundreds of feet long, and good God, how much money does this real estate agent have?

“This is where the really rich folk of Chicago dock their boats,” Louis nods towards a row of towering boats. “You should see them in the summer, with their pastel Ralph Lauren Polos and khakis. They spend all day here, polishing their boats, comparing whose dick is bigger. It’s pathetic.”

“You’re one of those rich men, aren’t you?” Harry grins.

Louis shrugs, “Only through my mother. Everyone in this circle is more than what is seen on the surface, _bello_ , you wouldn’t understand,” he adds cryptically. “Everyone has something to hide.”

And, okay? Everything about the man screams danger and mystery, and it’s so alluring, that maybe Harry should run away as fast as he can. He should ask to be taken back home, say he doesn’t feel good, and never contact this man again. He already knows how this will all end. Fuck, he just needs to enjoy it while he can.

They make it to a different, wooden pier, one that looks more exclusive, and only holds around a dozen or so boats.  “Which is yours?”

“That one, _[Famoso Guerriero](http://www.superyachts.com/luxury-yacht-for-sale/nadara-40-2287/)_.” Louis points to the end of the line, where a massive, dusty-gold yacht sits, where it bobs peacefully with the waves. “It was a present to me after graduating from Harvard Business. 131 feet of pure splendor.”

“ _Famoso_ what?” Harry asks.

“ _Famoso Guerriero_ ,” Louis repeats with a beautiful Italian accent. “It means _famous warrior_ , which is what my na—“

“Your name means in Italian,” Harry finishes with a flush. “And which one is your family boat?” He questions, pleading Louis with his eyes to answer, to take his gaze away from him, to stop looking at him like _that_.

Louis shakes his head, like he’s snapping his self out of a gaze, and lets go of his hand to place an arm around Harry’s waist. They walk the opposite way of the _Famoso Guerriero_ , until they reach the biggest boat held at the dock. It’s not even a yacht, Harry believes, it’s a fucking _ship_. They stand in front of it, admiring its pure aluminum beauty, making both of them look like dwarfs.

“Please tell me this isn’t yours,” Harry says in awe, looking up at the dark blue sail boat watching how it shines with the reflection of the dark water. “This is so beautiful,” he confesses, all pretenses of acting completely unimpressed fly out the window.

“You haven’t seen anything yet,” Louis pulls him towards the pier line, where the steps of the boat are. “Her name is _[Twizzle](http://www.superyachts.com/luxury-yacht-for-sale/twizzle-2028/layout.htm)_ , my kid sisters named her, and she was a 40th birthday present to our mother. We take her out as much as we can; in fact we just got back from a trip to the Mediterranean a few months back.”

Harry is taken aback, once they’re on the deck of the _Twizzle_ , where a crew of half a dozen people are waiting and smiling brightly at them, all dressed in white suits. “Hi? What’s all this?” he whispers to Louis.

 “They're helping me, since I can't romance you all by myself,” Louis stage whispers back, smiling through his words. He turns back to the awaiting staff and simply nods at them, but they excuse themselves and moments later the white main and head sails are let loose from where they were tied back and flap their enormity in the wind. “Come here,” Louis leads them to the railing, watching the water as the boat is moved from the docks and quickly flows over Lake Michigan.

“Dinner should be ready soon,” Louis adds.

“I can’t believe you—this is incredible.” Harry looks from the water to the front railing and gets an idea. He tugs on his date’s hand, and runs until they’re at the very front of the boat, the bow. Carefully, he lifts himself up until his feet are tucked nice and steady on what Louis calls the Gunwhale. The said man groans from behind him, immediately puts his hands on Harry’s waist once his feet are secure, Harry’s own hands are tight on the railing.

“Are you really doing this?” Louis laughs from behind him.

“Shush, just play along,” Harry mumbles.

“Close your eyes, and don’t peak!” Louis instructs, playing along just rightfully, fingers digging into skin. “Now, just hold on, hold on. Do you trust me?”

It’s a silly question, something that Harry shouldn’t even really be asking himself since it’s just a part of the movie they’re acting out. But does he trust Louis? He doesn’t. He doesn’t trust Louis not to break his heart, doesn’t trust Louis to call him after he gets what he wants, doesn’t trust Louis to be honest. But Louis shouldn’t trust Harry, either, should he? He’s playing the game, too, which makes their level parallel, and what does that say about Harry? It makes him just as bad as the man.

“I trust you,” he finally says.

Louis reaches upwards and unclasps Harry’s hands from their grip on the pulpit, in its place; he folds them into his own palms and unfolds the boy’s arms, stretching them out to his side, like an eagle in mid-flight. “You can open your eyes now.”

Harry gasps dramatically once his eyes are open, but the sight truly is magnificent. _Twizzle_ is nothing like the Titanic, but the view is just as beautiful. The sun is going down, and it looks like someone took a paintbrush and stroked the sky with violets and hues of warm reds. Louis’ fingers are digging into his hip almost to the point where his blunt nails can break skin, but it makes him feel steady and secure, and the way his head rests in the crook of Harry’s neck—he’s safe.

“I’m flying, Louis!” He shouts, but his words all muffled by the strong wind that blows his hair back and stings at his eyes.

Louis starts to sing in his ear. “ _Come, Josephine, in my flying machine, going up, she goes up, up she goes_!” He takes Harry’s wrists into his hands, not able to reach his hands, and smiles. Louis folds Harry’s arms the best that he can, until their limbs are a folded bundle in the middle of his chest, and Harry turns his head to meet Louis’ eyes.

This is when—Harry’s eyes widen and his pulse quickens—this is when Rose and Jack kiss, this is when Harry and Louis… Blue eyes stare back at him expectantly, like Louis knows what should happen next, and they’re so close, lips inches away, noses almost touching, that it would be nothing to just close the distance. It would be so easy to finally press his lips against his, like he’s dreamed of for weeks, but—

He can’t.

He just smiles at Louis and turns back to face the horizon, tries not to let the way the man’s grip on his arms loosen affect him.

“I didn’t just want to take you out to a restaurant,” Louis mumbles into Harry’s back. “I didn’t want you to compare our date to the one you had with that girl.”

“I only went out with her to get her to leave me alone,” Harry confesses. He wants to say how Louis and Taylor are on two completely different levels, how they would never compare, but he doesn’t. He turns around slowly on his feet, facing Louis completely now. “It wasn’t a very fun date.”

Louis bites his lip, like he’s trying to fight back a grin. He tucks several strands of Harry’s hair that are currently flying wildly from the wind, behind his ear. “She was trying really hard.”

“ _You’re_ trying really hard right now.” Harry laughs, kicking Louis’ calf lightly with his foot.

Louis throws his head back with laughter and kicks back, “Touché.”

They’re silent again, and Harry has his head tipped back, watching how the stars sparkle in the night sky. He hasn’t seen them since leaving Cambridge, the city tall with skyscrapers.

“You truly look stunning,” Louis breaks their silence, and Harry is surprised when he looks back down to see the man watching his face, when he could easily be starring at his opened chest.

“Thank you,” he replies reluctantly. Is he just working his charm? “Do you say that you all your dates?”

Louis leans in with a secretive smile. “Can I tell you a secret?”

“Of course.”

“I haven’t been on a date since I was eighteen.”

“Really?” Harry raises dubious eyebrows. “Then what where you doing on Friday night, a week ago?”

Louis makes a surprise sound at the back of his throat and rolls his eyes up towards the sky. “That was _not_ a date! That’s Chloe and—no, no. No. My family and hers have known each other for decades, and she has this fucked up illusion that we’re going to be together, we’ve never even had a thing. She just insane.”

“More so than you?” Harry’s lips crook up.

Louis nods slowly, “You have _no_ clue,” he says seriously.

“Mr. Tomlinson, Mr. Styles?” A woman calls from behind them.“Dinner is served.”

 

Conversation comes incredibly easy, much to Harry’s surprise. They talk over classic Italian dishes, with a lot of pasta and meat, endless shrimp and lobster, and steamed vegetables. There’s warm soup and crisp salad, and rich wine, one that takes away the edge.

 It’s an hour later that he realizes he’s having a real, honest-to-goodness conversation with Louis Tomlinson, on his family yacht, of all places, and that it’s _pleasant_. Two hours later, he notices how striking Louis’ laugh is, how his face brightens and his eyes become squinty little things, with crinkles at the corners, and he has the slightest dimple. Its three hours into the date, over a creamy, rose panna cotta, topped with actual pink rose petals and sweet rose syrup, that he notes how much Louis affects him _._ It’s not the alcohol his body isn’t used to consuming, and it’s not how comfortable he feels around the man, but it’s simply that this is a new Louis, one he’s never met before.

This Louis is kind. He is sincere and polite; there is no trace of egoism or arrogance. This man is charming and funny, and so witty, that he can give Gemma Styles a run for her money. He’s sarcastic and makes fun of himself—he’s _sweet_. He doesn’t make Harry feel like he’s just a prize.

“You’ve got to tell me more about yourself,” Harry smiles, swirling the white whine in his goblet. “Tell me something.” It’s been hard, trying to get the man to open up more about himself, usually avoiding topics when it comes to him. It feels like the whole night has been spent talking about Harry instead.

“More about me?” Louis shrugs, cutting a small piece of his panna cotta. “I’m just your normal, young, real estate agent. Twenty-four, come from a, uh, traditional Italian family. I have a shitload of siblings—two older brothers and four younger sisters. I can’t cook to save my life.”

“No,” Harry giggles through his whine. “Everyone knows that! Tell me something else, tell me about your family. I told you about mine,” he pouts.

Louis gasps. “You lie! You only told me about your genius sister, you refused to talk about your parents,” he accuses. “Fess up.”

“No way, they’re so—I love them, I do. I love my mom, she's an amazing woman. I love my step-dad, who has been more of a father to me than my biological dad. Enough of that, tell me about...'”

 

The moon is full and high once they start heading back to the harbor. When the boat docks, Harry thanks everyone dearly, and Louis holds his hand all the way back to the parking lot, where his glossy Merc is waiting. Once inside the car, riding back to the city, is when the tension begins, thick and floating through the small, confined space.

It’s been building all night, the sexual tension between the two of them, but Harry had been proud of himself for how easily he had kept it at bay. But now? Of course, there were times where he looked up and saw Louis starring at his lips or down at his visible chest, but he’s surprised at how Louis keeps his hands to himself in the car, how he hasn’t even said a word implying that he wants to sleep with him. He’s being surprisingly good, a real gentleman, and it’s fucking with Harry’s game plan.

Why the hell isn’t he asking Harry back to his place? The younger boy made all his plans surrounding the assumptions that Louis Tomlinson was going to act like a complete asshole, but now he’s hit a bump on the road, and there’s no way he can win if Louis’ being... _Nice_.

The car stops once it’s in front of the Northwestern dorms, and Louis turns it off with a single button. He shifts in his seat until he’s facing Harry, one leg tucked underneath his bottom. “So,” he simpers, “did I romance you plenty?”

“You did, I was quite surprised.”

“I have the element of surprise behind me, it seems.” He’s quiet again, picking at invisible lint on his pants. “How did I compare to Taylor?” He grins, seemingly joking.

“It’s like you’re trying to find which of you will go as the better lay in my list.”

Louis’ lips twitch. “You keep a list?”

“Maybe.” Harry shrugs casually. “You won’t find out, not for a while.”

“A while?” Louis narrows his almond-shaped eyes. “Is that how long it’s going to take me—a while?”

Harry nods easily. “Perhaps.”

“What an intriguing boy,” Louis mumbles underneath his breath, like he’s speaking to himself.

“You keep calling me intriguing and fascinating,” Harry notices, “That’s like the third time you’ve said that tonight.”

“I can’t help it.” Louis meets his eyes. “It’s true.”

Harry only nods again. He doesn’t think of himself as interesting or captivating, not like Louis claims he is. It’s quiet again, and he’s annoyed once he checks the watch on his wrist and realizes it’s nearing one in the morning; waking up for school tomorrow at seven will be a real chore. “Um, I should—goodnight,” he opens the door slowly, half-way. He doesn’t want to get out, he doesn’t, would rather talk until the sun comes out, but that’s not in option. “This was fun.”

“It was,” he replies.

“Bye, then,” Harry speaks slowly, staring at Louis until he can’t any longer. With a heavy body, he climbs out of the sports car, shuts the sideways door the best he can, and begins walking towards the glass doors of his building, unlocking his ring of keys from his belt loop. He pays no mind to a door slamming behind him, but lets out a truly high squeak when hands grab his waist and turn him around, lips engulfing his painfully, pressed hard against his. He can only smile at that.

Louis keeps crashing his lips against his and growls lowly, truly animalistic, and it sends lava flowing in Harry’s body, replacing any blood that there ever was. His arms immediately wrap themselves around Louis’ neck, hands entwining with the long, straight hair at his nape. Louis tastes sweet but acidic all at once on Harry’s lips, like rose petals and white wine, like honey and lemon—the most succulent thing to ever touch his lips, and Harry doesn’t think twice before sucking on his lower lip, trying to get drunk on the aftertaste of wine.

Louis licks at his bottom lip, asking for access, and Harry grants him his wish, opening his mouth slightly, moaning at the touch of tongues meeting. They kiss for several minutes, right outside his building, the same, hurried, frantic pace that has them both gasping and moaning into the night. Louis’ strong hands massage his hip, thumbs peeking underneath the fabric of his shirt, burning holes into his skin. He has to pull back again to catch his breath; otherwise Louis will find Harry just like he did the first time at _Fiction_.

When he pulls back, Louis’ eyes snap open, and every thought and strategy Harry had in his mind vanishs into clear, blue skies, evaporating with every soft stroke of Louis’ small, firm fingers. Louis moves a hand away from his hip, trailing his fingers across the span of Harry’s cheekbones, the underside of his jaw, to push back curls that have fallen out of place. He runs a thumb on the tiny, faint scar on his temple.

“Can I call you again?” Louis breathes out; voice abnormally low, but still that raspy tone Harry likes.

“I would—I would like that,” Harry stutters, voice whispering, afraid to break the spell.

“Good.” Louis reaches up on his tippy toes and pulls Harry’s neck down to meet him halfway before pressing his lips against his sweetly once, twice before pulling away and falling back on his feet. “Goodnight, _bello_ Harry.” He starts walking backwards then, eyes not breaking away, until his back hits a tree and he almost falls over.

Harry guffaws, slapping a hand over his mouth the moment he can, and it’s so refreshing to see Louis laugh at himself, too, not so stuck up and tense, but relaxed. It’s nice. He watches from the door as his date climbs into his too-expensive car and speed off, tires screeching behind him.  Once inside, he waves to the night security stationed at his desk in the lobby, and in the elevator, the doubts stop pouring in.

 _What if_.

Louis hadn’t asked to come up, he hadn’t made any crude suggestions to sex, he hadn’t asked for anything other than a simple call. He hadn’t even made any jokes after their hot makeout session! He likes Louis, he really does, but if this new Louis is the one who he’ll be seeing from now on… well, then he’s fucked. What if he does like Harry, what if none of this is a ploy?

 

He yanks himself out of bed the next morning, ten minutes before his alarm goes off, and runs to the door in only his boxers. He’s not let down when the sight of a massive bushel of four dozen long-stemmed, fully blooming, bright orange roses greets him. He grins to himself and snatches the vase right up, slamming the door behind him with a foot, and settles the flowers on the little space left on his desk.

He’s confused by the lack of a note, but the feeling only settles in deeper when he notices the long fabric—which, at a closer look, he realizes has little red skulls— made into a bow, circling the middle of the crystal container. The bow is so cute that he doesn’t want to ruin it, but curiosity gets the best of him and he pulls on end of the design, which quickly unfolds around the vase. A [scarf](http://www.alexandermcqueen.com/us/alexandermcqueen/pashmina-scarf_cod46326550ti.html)?

Harry takes the fabric and lays it out on his bed, fingers running over the delicate skulls of different size variety and the short fringes at the edge. Why would— _oh_. He remembers the cheap scarf he wore to their date last night; all wrapped up around his curls, and runs the soft, silk-like fabric through his fingers again. That’s so _sweet_. The name _Alexander McQueen_ is on one of the corners, but thinking about someone spending up to hundreds of dollars on a scarf for him gives him palpitations, even if that someone is millionaire Louis Tomlinson.

With his fingers still touching the silk material of his new scarf, he looks up the meaning of orange roses on his phone, settling back into his unmade bed. _Orange roses carry a tinge of the burning flame in its bosom, and are therefore indicative of the all-consuming fire of passion and desire. Enthusiasm and unlimited energy are some other meanings of the orange rose._ _When you are totally besotted and completely bewitched by somebody, send them an orange rose._

_When new ventures begin, the beginning of a journey - the orange rose celebrates all new beginnings._

New ventures, the beginning of a journey—new beginnings? Harry really doesn’t know what to think, all different uncertainties and doubts racing through his mind, but one thing is certain: he’s truly, madly, deeply _fucked_. 


	9. Going Out and Giving In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Thanks for reading :)
> 
> Disclaimer: Not my story, not my plot, not my characters. Just an adaption. One Direction is also not mine.

* * *

 

_“Patience is bitter, but its fruit is sweet.”  ― Aristotle_

 

He twirls around as fast as he can, feet pushing at the steady hardwood below them, and every few seconds he catches quick glimpses of the bright, towering city, the view spanning as far as the lake. The office spins along with him, and he can’t take the grin off his face. If someone were to walk into the room, they’d see a grown man spinning himself around in an executive leather chair, laughing carelessly while a high stack of untouched paperwork sit on the desk, and they’d wonder if he is high, or just insane.

It reminds him of when he was a child, sneaking into his father’s big, fancy office, and plopping down on his chair, begging to be spun around. His father wouldn’t always comply, too busy with things a then six year old Louis couldn’t understand, but those rare moments when Marcos Tomlinson chuckled and shook his head at him before lifting the small boy up and on the chair, spinning him fast, made his day. He would brag to his older brothers, who would only roll their eyes at him and scoff, too busy being growing up to feel any amount of jealously.

Louis doesn’t spin around in his chair often; he is, after all, a grown ass man with serious business things to do, but when he does, it’s only for a good occasion and he’s—he’s _happy_ , or something. Spinning around in a wheelie chair makes him feel like a child again, and his date with Harry—that, too, did bring a certain youthful aura, made him forget that he’s not _Il Principe_ , that there aren’t people watching his every move, that he’s not on the hit lists of many different organizations around the globe.

He is, of course, gloating. Last night was _easy_ , so easy, that it makes him wonder if Harry was even trying. It was obvious that the boy—the man? The man-boy?—was trying to fight him during the night, but besides his best efforts, ended up giving in and opening up to Louis. That changed things Louis—the way Harry smiled at him throughout dinner and laughed at his boring stories—it changed the game plan, changed the end goal.

Suddenly, for Louis, it isn’t about trying to get the curly-haired boy into his bed, anymore. It feels like Harry deserves better now, it feels like it isn’t all about the touching, it feels like _trouble_.  As his chair slows down, he knows he’s in trouble, knows that change isn’t always what’s best for him, and that he, Louis Tomlinson, he—well, he _likes_ Harry. He’s in deep, uncharted waters; never in his life has he actually felt something for someone other than lust, more than a mere physical attraction.  It’s no longer only sex. 

But even with that realization, it’s still a game first and foremost. He can’t go back on that now, he still has a play to win, and he knows that Harry won’t be easy nor will he be quick, but that fact doesn’t loom over Louis like a dark, gray cloud anymore. What are a few more flowers sent to his doorstep, another romantic date or two? Spending time with Harry is no chore, as Louis realized last night, so why not enjoy the most of it? He keeps in mind that after the deed _is_ done, he might even miss the boy, so there’s no hurry whatsoever.

And that kiss—that _kiss_! If he closes his eyes, he can still feel the warmth of Harry’s lean body against his, the way his fingers gripped at the nape of his neck, tugging innocently at the hair there. He can taste the sweetness of his pillowed lips; feel the heat of them as they move with expertise against his. He can still feel the way his fingers burn at the slightest touch of Harry’s smooth skin against his, heavenly.

Harry’s trouble, is the thing, and Louis’ never done this before. How exactly can he be _with_ the boy and not _be_ with him, at the same time? He’s never been around someone he wanted so badly, has never had dinner with someone he hasn’t fucked but has every intention of doing it. How do people do that, how do they just simply chill with the person behind every desire they hold?

Isn’t that what friends do? Don’t friends hang out and go for friendly dinners? Louis doesn’t have friends, not besides his family; he doesn’t trust anyone outside the Tomlinson clan. And is that what he and Harry are then, _friends_? Friends don’t kiss each other like they do; friends don’t want each other so desperately like Louis wants younger man.

 

It’s two hours later when his cell phone rings, and he doesn’t have to glance up from the tea he’s preparing to spare a look at the screen; he’s been expecting this call all morning. He’s already gone for his morning jog downstairs, dressed, and showered, and the phone call is all he needs now. He clinks his spoon against the side of the porcelain cup for a few seconds, waiting for two more rings to not seem eager.

“Good morning, Harry,” he answers brightly.

“ _Louis_ ,” the younger boy breathes out, low and gentle. “ _Hi.”_

“And what do I owe this pleasure to?”

Harry hesitates, the pause evident over the phone. “ _I, uh, I needed some time to figure out exactly how to thank a certain man for sending me gorgeous flowers, again. They’re the most beautiful bundle of roses I have ever seen, Louis, and they’re orange, too. Orange s’my favorite color.”_

Orange, huh. Louis was expecting something soft, like a pure pink tone or maybe even a sunny yellow, to be Harry’s favorite, not orange. Orange is brilliant and vivid and strident, so maybe it does make sense. “A certain man?” Louis laughs, and when he looks up from the marble counter to a large mirror in the living room, he catches the soft look that has plagued his face. It’s frightening. “More competition for me?”

Harry giggles on the other end, actually fucking _giggles._  “ _You’re going to need to amp up the romance factor. I’m hot stuff, I don’t know if you knew._ ”

“Trust me, I’m aware,” Louis admits through clenched teeth. So unbelievably, and astonishingly, aware.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Harry clears his throat. “ _Thank you for the scarf, it’s beautiful. I-I wasn’t expecting that, you really didn’t ha—_ “

“It was my pleasure, Harry. I’m happy you liked the flowers, too.”

“ _Uh, yeah. I looked up what orange roses mean, too. Pretty straightforward: longing and ardor_.”

Louis shrugs before he can remember that the boy can’t see him. “I rather not beat around the bush. I had a lot of fun last night—I can only assume you did as well— and to put it simply, you looked incredible, stunning, and it was all I could do to not—?” He can’t even finish his own sentence, suddenly overwhelmed by the truthiness of it all.

“ _Oh_.” There’s a creaking noise and a soft breath, and Louis wishes to be there, to be wherever it is that Harry Styles is at that moment, just to be able to watch his face, filled with every expression, open like a book. “ _Thank you. I guess—that means a lot coming from you, from someone who has had hundreds of men in his short lifetime._ ”

It’s shame that quickly fills Louis. It’s infamy that starts flowing through his veins like liquid gold, from his brain to the tips of his toes. It’s more than hundreds, he’s sure of it, and never before has he felt shame for that, for the zip-lipped reputation he holds, for the notches in his belt, but the way Harry said it, the soft force behind his words—what does the boy think of him? Does he believe him to be a whore?

“ _I was calling to say thank you for the scarf and the flowers. So. Thank you._ ”

“Of course, you’re welcome.” Louis tries to pick himself back up. “Expect more your way.”

Harry splutters on the other end. “ _Wha—no, Louis, that’s okay. I love the flowers—I’ve only mentioned it a million times already—,_ ” he adds an awkward, little laugh, “— _but really, it’s not necessarily… necessary. I’m just not a big fan of presents and being fawned over._ ”

“Really?” Louis can’t hide the surprise in his voice; _everyone_ likes presents. He doesn’t have a long history with both boys and toys, but every girl he’s ever met loved to be fawned and showered with gifts. Not that he actually ever showered a girl with gifts, certainly not fawned over one. Are boys not the same? Is _Harry_ the odd one out, here? All he got were some flowers! “You’re just going to have to get used to it.”

“Used _to it?_ ” Harry laughs loudly. “ _You make it sound like you’re trying to, I don’t know, basically court me, or something. Like in the old days, you know when men woul—_ “

“Harry,” Louis interrupts his rambling. “Harry, can I take you out tonight? Dinner?”

The said boy sounds like he’s thrown out of track, “ _Uh. I suppose_.”

“You _suppose_? That sounds promising.”

“ _Correct me if I’m wrong_ ,” Louis can almost hear the smirk in his voice, “ _but you said_ you _would be calling_ me _. Maybe I should just ask you out, since I’m the one calling._ ”

“No, absolutely not,” Louis replies simply. “I’m romancing you, remember?”

“ _Yeah, I suppose_ ,” Harry repeats as nonchalantly as he can, but Louis knows he’s biting down on his lip to keep from laughing.

“You’re having too much fun with this.”

“ _I have no clue what you’re talking about,_ ” he says airily, _“although, it is nice to see you squirm, Louis_.”

“I’d love to see you squirm, too, Harry, don’t forget.” Louis can’t help himself, and it’s almost like a—a _what_? A promise, or perhaps, even a warning? God, Harry isn’t stupid, he’s got to know exactly what Louis is going after; he’s only made it obvious every time they’ve seen each other.  But it can’t hurt, right? Giving a little warning to what might come can’t be a bad thing, Harry should know—if things don’t end up the way the younger man wants, the blame can’t be put on Louis, not if he’s warned him one way or another.

Harry only snickers. “ _I know, Lou, I know. You still have a bit of work left to do, I’m afraid. It’s not time for that, yet._ ”

“ _Rivers know this: there is no hurry_ ,” Louis recites from the top of his head, and Jesus, is he really spewing this particular quote? Out of all the others stashed away in the back of his head placed there specifically for showing off, this one rambles out of his mouth? “ _We shall get there some day_.”

There’s a pause. “ _Is that a—who said that? That’s so_ _sweet._ ” he sounds surprised.

“I don’t recall,” Louis lies and hurries to chance the subject. “Harry, about tonight—?”

“ _Oh, yeah, right. Do you think we can go back to_ Z’s Grill _? I have an urge to redeem myself after my date-thing with Taylor, maybe enjoy the food this time. Also, my friend, Perrie? She’s been nagging me about taking her to see your brother, wants to apologize for what happened at the club that night. You know, basically, with the, uh, taser_?”

Louis doesn’t want to go into that topic, the whole thing with Zayn; it creates an uncomfortable feeling, a knot in his stomach, but he does anyway. It’s _Harry_ , which means something, right? “Yeah, he’s been asking about her, too. It’s so fucking bizarre, with how Li—never mind. Should we—“

“ _Wait, no_ ,” Harry interrupts. “ _Why is it weird? Is Zayn not like, into girls or something? Because, Louis, if Perrie is just going to go and make a fool out of herself, I rather just tell her now before she gets her hopes up. She thinks he’s really attractive and she does feel incredibly bad for hurting him, so maybe_ —“

Louis chuckles, “You’re rambling, Harry. As cute as that is, I rather not talk about it, okay? He’s, um, he’s into her, too.” Probably, unless his big brother is doing that _thing_ again, just hoping someone can finally take his mind—and heart, as sappy and gross as that sounds—off of Liam for once and for all.

“ _Just promise me she won’t get hurt, Lou. She’s my first friend here—my first_ real _friend, I mean_ ,” Harry speaks quickly. “ _Just say that she’s in good hands, that Zayn isn’t like yo—like that._ ”

_Like you._

Like him? Harry wants Louis to promise Zayn won’t hurt his friend, promise him that Zayn isn’t like _Louis_? He raises is gaze back up and meets his own eyes in the mirror, and it’s shame. It’s the shame that was so quickly forgotten about with Harry’s sweet, low voice and loud laughter, but it’s back. He snaps his eyes away and clears his throat, “Yeah, I—“

But the problem is that Louis can’t promise Harry anything, nothing at all. He can’t say his brother won’t hurt Perrie, because his brother is still madly, irrevocably in love with his best friend, someone who has seemly moved on, someone he has to see every day and sit across from on Sunday dinners; he’ll never truly get the chance to get over his heartbreak. He can’t promise anything because Zayn is mad over love and Louis doesn’t know what love is, jus mad over everything. It’s not fair of the curly-haired boy to ask something like that of him.

“—I think we should just let them be, let them do their thing. It is what it is, after all.”

“ _It is what it is_ ,” Harry repeats softly. He perks up almost instantly. “ _Per and I will meet you tonight at the restaurant, then._ ”

“I thought I’d be picking you up.”

“ _Perrie’s driving me. Besides, we might not make it to Z’s alive for dinner with your driving. Can’t afford to risk my life again!_ ”

“Oy,” Louis protests with a grin.”Tonight, _bello_ , I’ll see you then.”

Harry only makes an agreeing noise and lets out a soft giggle before hanging up, and Louis can’t wait to have his hands around his waist again.

For the rest of the day, he tries to ignore the little, smug smirk that covers his face, but it just becomes wasted energy: it won’t go away. He sees it reflecting back at him when he goes to close the door of his stainless steel fridge, catches it as he passes through the hallway and it lingers on mirrors that adorn the walls, and sees it staring back at him through the glass panels of his window-walls as he looks down at his city.

 

Business-speaking, he doesn’t have a full schedule. He makes his way down to the docks to check on a cocaine order coming in straight from the South, the narcotic hidden snuggly in Gerber Baby formula, like usual, a product so strong that even the wisest police dogs can’t detect it. He watches with careful eyes as the workers unload crates from the boats, checking off every package. Louis doesn’t have to, but he sticks around to see his workers load everything in the warehouses for Johannah’s people to do the rest, the simple melting of the formula to reveal the drug. Even after all this time, you’d think people would learn not to steal from a Tomlinson, but every once in a blue moon it happens.

 

Finally, hours later, it’s time. He’s dressed, clean-shaven, hair slicked back, and he’s ready to get Harry. The sky is softly darkening, tainted with mauves and light blues, the air is fresh, the wind has a small bite that screams _fall is coming!_ With Zayn’s restaurant so nearby, Louis decides to walk instead of racing in his car, opting for the fresh air.

Behind his Ray-Bans, it’s much darker, but the streets are just as crowded with the few tourists left, and the natives, both enjoying what is left of the nice, summer weather. He gets the usual, lusty stare or a head-to-toe checkout, and sometimes even a frank wink, from both attractive young men and women, but he can’t be bothered to even glance back or grin to himself at their advances. If it’s not Harry Styles, it’s not happening.

Louis makes it just in time, considering how leisurely his stroll was, and he only has to wait a couple minutes before a white Porsche is pulling up at the curb and a very blonde Perrie with a lipstick so bright aliens could see it from outer space, is hopping out and tossing her keys at the valet. There’s no doubt the girl is pretty—and crazy—with a tiny body and lips so plump Louis wonders about their authenticity, but _Harry_. Harry’s a vision as he steps out of the convertible, all lean, long miles of legs underneath skinny, tight, black jeans, pouting with glossy, pink lips at his mused up curls, tucking a short, orange rose back behind his ear.

His hair is let down today, and although Louis was hoping to see the McQueen scarf wrapped around his pretty curls, he’s not disappointed to see it hanging loose around the boy, accentuating the curve of his milky neck. God, the boy is _beautiful_ , with his pigeon toes and his long limbs, with his bright eyes that pop with the dark, hunter green of his nails every time he goes to move a lock of hair away from his face. He’s a sight for the angels, something that belongs in the Sistine Chapel. When he looks up and sees Louis waiting for him patiently, when the pout of his lips turns into a broad smile that lights up his face. Louis' speechless.

Louis has never noticed so much about one single person, has never focused on the way they walk or brush their hair back or bite down on their lip. Never, he has never paid attention to the little details that make a person who they are, but here he is, leaning against the glossy wall of the boat, ready to go on his _second date_ with this boy and—and it’s insane. He knows it’s not about the sex he so badly wants, no, not anymore: it’s different now, yet he isn’t exactly sure _why_ or _how_. The vivid orange flower curled up nicely in Harry’s dark locks, contrasting against his pallid skin, rivals for his beauty.

“Louis!” Perrie comes to a stop in front of him after climbing the ramp up to the boat, all bright smiles and big, pale eyes adorned by thick, black eyelashes, and enthusiasm. Harry approaches them cautiously, looking more afraid of his best friend than his date, shooting off a small smile.  “First.” The blonde girl starts, holding out a tan hand. “I’m Perrie Edwards, nice to meet ya. Second.” She pumps Louis’ hand up and down before dropping it. “You totally must think I’m like, this maniac, but I swear I’m not. I know the taser thing was pushing it a bit, but in _my_ defense, I thought Harry here was going to get gangbanged.”  She lifts her hands up and purses her lips to the side, almost like saying _oh, well, what can you do?_

“I—“

“So, I just felt like I owed you an apology, for, you know, acting all crazy and jumping on you and tasering your brothers… Speaking of, is Zayn inside?” Perrie shoots him a grin so wide he believes he could count all of her white, sparkling teeth, before reaching behind him, patting him twice on the ass, and skipping towards the doors in her heels. “He’s got such a nice booty, Harry!”

When he turns back to Harry, the boy’s face is flushed from his neck up, hands folded behind his back, dark strands caressing his cheek. “That’s Perrie.” His lips twitch. “She never stops. Don’t you feel tired, just by being around her?”

Louis agrees, shuffling closer. “I do think I could go for a nap right now, actually.”

That causes a laugh to bubble out from the younger boy, who then steps closer until their bodies are inches from touching. He reaches out to place a hand on the lapel of Louis’ blazer, dark nails shining, and rubs the material in between two thumbs before spreading it open to read the script on his black shirt. “ _Love will tear us apart_ , huh? So depressing for a second date, don’t you think?”

Louis ignores that, wrapping his hands around Harry’s warm middle. He wants to lean in even further, wants to take his velvet bottom lip in between his teeth, biting down until the flesh turns a rose pink, and then he wants to lick it over soothingly. He wants Harry, wants to feel him, right now. How does one go about this in a gentlemanly way? Does he ask and ruin the element of surprise—girls seem to like surprise kisses in those chick flicks he pretends to hate while watching with his younger sisters—or just go for it, lean in and see what Harry does?

“Don’t over think it.” Harry leans in, tilting his head. Their lips are so close that their noses bump and he can taste Harry’s minty toothpaste on the tip of his own tongue. Louis’ eyes travel down to his date’s full, pink lips, wet and glossy with spit, and back up to Harry’s eyes, where instead of meeting with brilliant, mint eyes, he only sees soft, pink eyelids and cheek-grazing eyelashes.

So Louis doesn’t think at all. He closes the tiny distance in between them, pressing closed lips against closed lips, marveling at Harry’s taste and warmth, his smooth texture. He wraps an arm around his waist, pulling him as close as he can even though there’s already no existing space between them, and goose bumps fly up his arms at the sound of Harry’s soft mewls. He’s surprised when Harry asks for permission, tongue licking at his lips repeatedly before he finally opens them, hands grasping the boy tighter.

He doesn’t know how long they battle for dominance, licking into each other’s mouth; teeth pulling on lips, hands gripping skin, until Harry pulls back to breathe and Louis chases his lips, pressing open mouth kisses to the corner of them, to his cheek, to his jaw. Harry ducks his head down, burying his face in Louis’ neck, fingers grasping with a closed fist at his shirt, panting.  Try as he might, but Louis can’t deny the electric currents that rush through him.

Harry pulls back, groaning and flushing. “We just made out in front of your brother’s restaurant. People are _staring_ ,” he whispers, nodding his head over to a bald man whose eyes keep flickering back and forth from his smart phone to them.

Louis scowls at the man, who has the decency to grin back and wiggle his eyebrows at him. He pulls open the door for Harry with one hand and flips the man off with the other. Inside, the hostess is waiting patiently and no one says a word before she’s leading them through a maze of tables until they reach Louis’ usual booth, the one with the best view of the lake.

Harry tucks his hair behind one ear and his cheeks dimple, thumbing at the velvet petals of the orange rose stuck there, and with those eyes and those curls and those lips, he could pass for Snow White. “So, Louis, I didn’t know you were a _Winnie the Pooh_ fan.”

 _Right_ , Louis really had hoped the boy had forgotten about that.

“You didn’t think I would look it up?” Harry’s eyes shine in the dim setting. “When a stunning man reads you a quote, it’s always in your best interest to look it up. Of course, I wasn’t expecting it to be a _Winnie the Pooh_ quote, but details.” He waves it off with a shimmer of green polish.

A stunning man, huh?

“My sisters…,” Louis trails, groaning at the memory. “Lottie and Fiz, they’re a few years younger than me; all they ever wanted to do was watch _Winnie the Pooh_. We would have like, these family nights, yeah, and Liam and I would want to watch _Power Rangers_ or Cartoon Network—back when they had the cool shit, like _Dextor’s Laboratory_ and _Pokémon_ — and Zayn always wanted to watch what Liam wanted, but the girls only ever wanted to watch that fat, talking bear. So, every Thursday night we would gather around in the movie room and watch hours and _hours_ of it.”

Harry’s eyes are soft and his lips are stretched around his mouth to their maximum capacity, and the sight does something to Louis.

“Aw,” the younger boy coos from across the booth. “Do you know any more cute _Winnie the Pooh_ quotes? You _do,_ don’t you! C’mon, you have to tell me at least one.”

Louis shakes his head mock sadness. “Can’t seem to think of one, sorry.”

Harry’s mouth falls open. “Don’t lie! By the end of the night, you better have one or else,” he teases with the corners of his lips turned upwards.

Conversation, like on their first date, comes easily. Harry talks about his classes and the books he’s reading and how it’s much tougher than he expected, which Louis finds a bit odd because hasn’t Harry been doing this for three years now? Then again, junior year is always the hardest one, so he tries to be a bit sympathetic.

“I’ve read _1984_ only about three dozen times, so I wasn’t too worried about it. Now we’re starting _The Catcher in the Rye_ , by J.D.—“

“—Salinger,” Louis finishes. “Read it, too, one of my favorites, actually.”

“Really?” Harry raises an eyebrow at that. “I find it to be one of the most dreadful things ever written. As much as I enjoy an unreliable, first-person narrator every now and again, I found Holden insufferable, a complete ass, and I couldn’t empathize for one second.”

“I liked the fact that it was first person; first person narrating is sometimes really hard to comprehend, but it’s about teenagers, and aren’t they the most difficult things to understand? My sister, Lottie, she’s eighteen, and she reminds me a bit like Holden, whiny and observant, a sensitive soul. Holden is prejudiced, opinionated, incredibly dramatic, but that’s what I find makes him so profound.”

Harry is quiet while he talks, eyes never leaving his face, sometimes staying on his lips for several seconds at a time. He’s listening to Louis talk about a book that still lies in his nightstand, but the way he’s so _attentive_ and honest with his big, green eyes, the way he nods when he agrees on something Louis says, and. No one is forcing Harry to listen, Louis isn’t his boss-to-be, Louis isn’t _Il Principe_ with Harry; but the boy still keeps quiet and pays attention, and Louis, while going on about Salinger’s book, finds that he’s missed this feeling, the feeling he gets whenever Harry’s eyes flicker towards him. Before Harry Styles, when was the last time Louis sat down with someone to _talk_ , to discuss such small things, like books for example?

“You’re so sexy when you talk books,” Harry teases around a grin. “You _do_ look very nice tonight.” Louis doesn’t miss the way he bites down on his lip as his eyes travel to his chest, where a small section of his chest piece is visible.

“As do you, but is there a time when you don’t?”

Harry laughs loudly, a burst filling the busy dinning room, and Louis thinks he could watch the way his eyes crinkle and his cheeks dimple for hours. It’s a beautiful sight. They talk for hours over rich dishes of Swish Tawook and Kofta, about silly things like what they used to watch as kids and how Cartoon Network just simply isn’t the same anymore (or so they hear), to more interesting topics like religion and how Harry was raised Christian but loves to indulge and study new cultures and religions, while Louis is a (hardly) practicing Roman-Catholic. They talk a bit more about their families, Harry asking to hear stories about Louis and what it’s like being in such a big, Italian family. The older man has to remind himself that to Harry and most of the world, he’s just another young, rising real estate agent, careful not to slip up and reveal something that could hurt the Tomlinson’s or whatever he has going on with the boy.

He also forgets how young the curly-haired boy actually is, just twenty-one. It’s hard to remember their three year age difference with how mature and steady Harry is, how wise he sounds, nothing like any of the other boys Louis has hooked up with before. Then again, he doesn’t tend to stick around long enough to hear them talk about their views on the Food Crisis, and how it’s linked to the risk of climate changes and related factors. Hell, a three year age difference isn’t so bad, it could be worse; it could be like, _five_ years. Three isn’t bad when Louis feels like he’s talking to a thirty year old.

It’s over dessert, a delicious plate of Knafeh, a sweet cheesecake topped with rosewater syrup, when Louis feels someone’s eyes on him, and he looks up to meet Zayn’s gaze. His brother is sitting in one of the booths across the room from them, with a lively-looking Perrie across from him. He’s always been able to sense what his older brother is feeling, but right now Zayn has a blank expression on his face, his eyes wide and gold and flat, and it doesn’t feel right to Louis. Perrie doesn’t notice anything’s off, and why should she, considering they’ve only really just met. Zayn turns back to Perrie and smiles wide, almost painfully, looking like he’s interested in whatever she’s spewing at him, but he’s also zipped up cozily in Liam’s favorite worn, black Topman jacket, which Louis finds incredibly counterproductive.

“So.” Harry draws Louis attention away from the mess across the dining room back to him. He lazily sips at his glass of red wine. “What’s your secret, Louis Tomlinson?”

“My secret?”

“There’s something about you, Lou, and I want to find out.”

 _That will never happen_. “I don’t have any secrets,” Louis lies. His mind is going slow, screaming that he needs to change the subject as quick as possible, and maybe he’s overreacting considering he hasn’t slipped up about anything and there’s no way possible Harry knows a thing about the real Louis Tomlinson, but it’s always just so uncomfortable. He doesn’t like the idea of lying to Harry for some odd reason.

“I have a secret,” Harry says then, slowly, surely, cheeks tinting pink, and there’s movement underneath the table and—oh.

Harry has his ankle wrapped around Louis’, rubbing his leg against Louis’ shin, and it shouldn’t be as distracting as it is, warmth radiating all throughout his body. Harry is looking at him shyly and expectantly, and oh, right, didn’t he say something? “Uh,” Louis clears his throat, “go on, what is it, Harry?” He wraps his own feet around both of Harry’s, smiling at the giggle he receives, swinging their legs to and fro.

What even _is_ this boy and what is he _doing_ to Louis?

“I’m not telling ya,” Harry smirks. He takes another sip of his wine, watching Louis over the rim, rubbing their legs together.

 

The next day, they have lunch together.

He drops off another bushel of orange roses at his dorm in the morning, and they exchange text messages throughout the day. Harry confesses that he doesn’t have any classes in the afternoon, so Louis decides to bring the younger boy lunch. He stops by a deli on his way to the campus and fills up a large, brown bag with subs, chips, salads, and teas. Harry greets him with a smile on a quad near his dorm, a few pecks on the lips, and grabs a hold of his wrist, leading them towards a neat spot underneath a large willow tree with a view to the small lake.

They don’t talk much after they eat, instead Louis leans against the trunk of the large tree and watches with amused eyes as Harry shyly leans against him, chest to back, elbows resting against his thighs, knees bent, and pulls out _The Catcher in the Rye_ from his messenger bag. Minutes later, the boy shifts until his head is resting on Louis’ lap, and it gives the older man a chance to truly appreciate him; the soft way his red lips move, the curve of his cupid’s bow, the length of his long, pale fingers as they turn pages, the light grip of his thumbs on the old paperback, the way the dark green color of his painted nails catches the sun. He watches as the wind blows Harry’s curls to the side, long and loose, grazing his broad shoulders. He watches in rapt as the boy crosses and uncrosses his ankles, the blades of the grass tickling the bottom of his bare feet, toes painted a light mint, the ink on his ankles reading _never gonna dance again_.

Louis terribly wants to reach down and wrap his fingers around a long curl, wants to feel if it’s as soft as it looks, if the springy parts in the back are as bouncy as they seem. He wants to drag a finger across Harry’s painted thumbnail, see how the polish feels underneath the pad of his index, see if it’s as smooth as it seems. He wants to glide a hand up and down the smooth, hairless skin of the boy’s exposed legs, dressed only in blue jean shorts that stop several inches above the knee despite the windier weather. But, mostly, Louis wants to know about the mint of his toe nails and the dark emerald of his fingernails, the hairless condition of his legs, the unnatural glimmer of his dusty, rose pink lips.

He just doesn’t know how he would go about it all. Louis isn’t educated about stuff like this, not like Zayn, who is all about the rights of everyone and their goldfish. It’s not that he doesn’t like it—the makeup and the girly stuff—he does, because it somehow _fits_ Harry Styles; the only Harry Styles he knows is the one with painted nails and a daisy-flower earring. But he knows if he just blurts out _do you want to be a girl or something_ , it might come off the wrong way, and he’s so, so close to getting want he wants, to being with Harry once and for all.

Their little lunch date is—is _nice_ , so wonderfully laid-back and calm that it scares Louis a tiny amount. He’s never felt so easy-going and relaxed. There’s no doubt in Louis’ mind that Harry has some sort of bewitching, calm sense about him, something that relaxes Louis, settles his thoughts, puts away all the worries regarding his family, his idiotic in-love brothers, the business. Something about Harry makes him put his guard down, and he can’t help but think that isn’t the smartest thing.

Harry’s sigh snaps him out his thoughts, and he watches with curious eyes as the boy gently places the worn paperback on the grass and turns to face Louis, cheek against thigh, warm breath against Louis’ clothed crotch. The younger boy sits up quickly and steals an unsuspecting kiss from more than willing lips. They stay like that for some time, Harry quiet and soft in Louis’ lap, hands wrapped around his neck, kissing each other without any words or space in between them. Yeah, Louis thinks, it’s quite nice.

 

The next morning, Louis has fresh, pink flowers delivered to Harry’s door step, with no note, but in its’ place is a small, white box with a gift inside. He had to think about what to send the boy, but after some thought and a lot of Google researching, he finally chose on a mixture of pale and dark pink, long-stemmed roses. He knows that the color is perfect for Harry, that he’ll love them. He hopes that the boy has the initiative to find out what the dark and light tones of pink stand for, and that the roses, along with the gift, get the message across. Maybe it’s not necessary, or maybe Harry just won’t care for Louis’ opinion, but he wants the bright-eyed boy to know what Louis thinks, that he somewhat understands.

 

It’s after two days, which included a lot of flirty text messages and ridiculous knock-knock jokes that did _not_ make Louis laugh at all, that they go on their fourth official date. Harry sits across from him at a small table with a patterned cloth and a melting candle stuffed into an empty wine bottle placed in the middle. There is a jazz band crooning away in the corner, and Louis doesn’t believe Zayn can get any more cliché, but _Jay’s Place_ is still his favorite Italian restaurant.

 “It’s _rude_?” Harry asks with surprise. He looks down at the spaghetti he’s twirling. “It ought to be hard eating pasta with a spoon, don’t you think? Why do people do that?”

“Mhm.” Louis nods, cutting up a small section of his beef. “You’re also not supposed to cut it up with a knife, just twirl and twirl—like how you’re doing it.” Harry gives him a beam that settles warmly in his chest. He looks at Harry’s hand wrapped around the fork and doesn’t resist the temptation to smile when his gaze falls upon the boy’s trimmed, light-pink nails.

“Thank you,” Harry says softly when he notices the direction of Louis’ appointed stare, voice too quiet for the buzz of the place. “It means a lot that you—that you don’t—it means _a lot_. So, thanks.” He ducks his head and continues twirling absentmindedly at his spaghetti.

 It had been a bit of an awkward experience, walking into the pharmacy and looking at aisle after aisle for the makeup, until finally bestowing upon what he needed. And even after finding the nail varnish, he became a bit overwhelmed at the rows and rows of different brands and colors. Is that why his sisters have such an abundant collection, because there’s so many that it becomes a bit overwhelming and the urge to buy all the colors settles in? That’s what happened to Louis, but he settled on the pink tone that Harry’s proudly displaying.  Louis didn’t even know that there were _that many_ different shades of pink.

“Would you like to order a _dolce_?” Louis asks with a smile an hour later, but his mind keeps screaming _please say no please say no please say no_. Tonight is _the_ night. He knows it is, Harry knows it is, the fucking waiter who messed up his order knows it is from the obvious sexual tension harboring at their booth. Louis did it, he actually did it—a whole damn week of playing around, beating around the bush, ordering flowers, going to expensive dinners, fuck, Louis even took him on his family’s treasured yacht: _tonight is the night_.

There is no doubt, not a tiny little smidge of it, in Louis’ mind. Harry wants it just as bad; he crumpled and gave up. At some point in the middle of the game, Harry had just given up. The ball is in Louis’ court now and it’s best to dunk it while he can. It was a game well played by both ends, but Louis thinks it’s time to count up the score—it’s time for him to win. The boy made it easy, or perhaps Louis just didn’t have to try real hard; it was so easy to like Harry, so easy to spend time with him, so easy to make him laugh so hard red wine spilled all over white tablecloths, so easy to make the dimples in his cheek turn into craters; it was all just so…effortless with Harry.

Harry clears his throat, averting his eyes. “No, I think I’m okay.”

 

“I thought you were an asshole.”

Louis snaps his head up; looking over to Harry who’s walking besides him, holding his stare straight ahead, but the faint blush on his cheeks gives him away.  They’re walking, just strolling leisurely through Grant Park, pointing out some of the sights, taking a picture of Harry in front of the infamous Buckingham Fountain. And now, suddenly, Harry’s calling him an asshole.  “’M sorry?”

“Yeah, I—” Harry turns to face him, grabbing on gently to his forearm. “I still think you’re an asshole.” His lips curve upwards.

“Well.” Louis smiles back hesitantly, wrapping an arm around the boy’s waist, and hey, if it happens to end up curled around _underneath_ his blazer, then so be it. “Then why did you agree to date me? If you think I’m an asshole, after all.”

Harry leans into Louis’ hold. “I guess, against my better judgment, of course, that I—I just like you.”

Louis laughs loudly, disturbing the peace in the dark night. He gasps then, mockingly, and pulls a shocked face. “You _like_ me? I had no idea! This is brand new information.”

“Fuck off,” the younger boy mumbles with glee written on his face, pulling away from Louis’ embrace. “Don’t flatter yourself; your ego can’t possibly get any bigger.” He draws back in, wrapping an arm around Louis’ shoulder.  “All I’m saying is that if I have to go on nice dates to really incredible restaurants with delicious food, and go on enormous boats to spend what may be the most romantic night of my life, and have a picnic and then read to someone underneath a tree—I’m okay with it being you.”

He doesn’t know what comes over him, doesn’t know why he says it, but he does. “I’m—I’m not a good person, Harry, you’ve got to know this. I’ve done some things…I’m not proud of.” He doesn’t regret it, especially not after Harry answers him with a tug on his hand and fingers intertwined with his.

“I know that, Lou. But, but you’re not an awful person, either, okay?”

Louis nods gratefully, and doesn’t move his hand away from where it’s entangled with Harry’s. Instead, he looks down on it in wonder, a bit stunned by the way the boy’s creamy hand engulfs his. His own hand looks tan and dainty in the hold, Harry’s pale pink fingernails contrasting brightly against his skin. They walk like that, in silence, for another ten minuets, and it isn’t until he gets the urge to cross the street once the lake is in view, that he realizes where they’re going.

Harry notices at the same time, raising both eyebrows. “Are you taking me to your lair, Tomlinson?”

Louis doesn’t know what to say, because he’s afraid that if he opens his mouth, crazy words might come blurting out. _Yes, yes, I’m taking you to my lair, I’ve been waiting weeks for this moment, I’ve been jerking off to the thought of your perky little ass and your red, plump lips and your toned abdomen, and please don’t say no, please come upstairs with me, please let me please you._ It _might_ sound a bit loony. So, he doesn’t say anything, just holds on to his hand tighter, grins, and keeps walking at a normal pace, afraid to be seen as to eager.

(It doesn’t cross his mind that they’re walking on a busy sidewalk towards his penthouse _together_ , holding hands. It should, but it doesn’t. It doesn’t feel forced or odd, it feels typical and pleasant, and the fact that he’s notorious in his city and utmost recognizable doesn’t enter his mind, and he completely forgets the reason _why_ he’s not allowed to hold hands with pretty boys in public. Or at all.)

They’re in front of the building when they stop. Harry laughs again, but this time it isn’t so loud, but quiet and still. Yet, he still has a tint to his cheeks and he’s biting his lip, and Louis knows.

“Do you think I’m stupid?” Harry jokes, leaning to press quick kisses to Louis’ thirsty lips. “Are we going to go up, or just stand out here all night?”

Louis can’t stop the smile that overpowers  his features. “Whatever my boy wishes, I shall grant him.” He pulls open the door and watches in awe how Harry’s hips sway naturally, the length of his legs covered by what must be second skin. He’s pondering how in the world he’s going to get those damn skinny jeans of his boy’s legs, when his elevator dings open and Harry tugs on his hand impatiently.

Tonight is the night.


	10. Sex and Showers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Not mine.

* * *

 

_“You will always fall in love, and it will always be like having your throat cut, just that fast.”  ― Catherynne M. Valente, Deathless_

 

 

_He pulls open the door and watches in awe how Harry’s hips sway naturally, the length of his legs covered by what must be second skin. He’s pondering how in the world he’s going to get those damn skinny jeans of his boy’s legs, when his elevator dings open and Harry tugs on his hand impatiently._

_Tonight is the night._

 

“Wow!” Is the first thing Harry breathes out once the elevator doors slide open. Besides him, Louis chuckles and rests a leading hand on the small of his back, gently pushing him further inside. “This is your apartment?” he asks in awe. He has never seen anything so beautiful and big and white and—clean.

“It’s the largest penthouse in my building. My brothers, Zayn, he has a level below mine, and Liam has a four bedroom condo further down,” Louis explains with an easy smile as he shrugs off his blazer and places it in the foyer closet. “This penthouse spans the entire top floor of the whole building; 14,000 square feet and 360 views of my beautiful city and Lake Michigan.”

Without any permission, Harry quickly chucks his own jacket at Louis and makes a beeline towards the curved glass walls straight ahead. Louis isn’t lying when he says he has a great view of the lake and the city below; Michigan Lake is nothing but a never ending blob of black in the dark night, but the city shines brightly with its’ white lights. He feels like he’s on top of the city, and hell, he might as well be from how high up they are. And to think Louis gets to wake up to such a beautiful view everyday. “How many bedrooms are there?” His nose is nearly pressed up against the glass, eyes wide as he takes in everything he can. “This must’ve cost a pretty penny.”

“Only five rooms, six baths, a media room, a game room, and an art gallery room,” Louis answers  with obvious pride from somewhere behind him, and _oh_ there are hands gripping at the indent of his waist now. “It’s for sale at thirty-two.”

Harry turns around, pressed up against the glass. Louis is so close that he could just lean down a few inches and their lips could connect in the sweetest of ways. His eyes reflect the sparkle of the dark city below them, and it’s so beautiful; the penthouse, the views, the lake, the city, _Louis_. So, so unbelievably and exquisitely beautiful, Harry’s not sure any of it is real. He needs a splash of cold water to the face, a pinch on the arm. This can’t be happening to him, not Harry.

He squeaks indignity when Louis looks back up and meets his eyes. Oh right, Harry had asked a question or something like that. “Millions—of dollars!? _Thirty-two_ _million_?”

“No, Harry, thirty-two hundred,” Louis’ lips twitch with humor. “Nothing compares to this property, nothing in Chicago, nothing in the States. 16-foot floor-to-ceiling windows, breath-taking views.” He nuzzles his nose into the crook of Harry’s neck and breathes out, “I’m a very lucky man.”

God, can Louis just take him right here and now? Just fuck him against the high windows, on top of the whole city? _Please,_ Harry pleads.  

 But Louis steps back and turns, walking out of the room and into what must be a kitchen from the ice machine he hears. “This building is my pride and joy. I’ve got a few other smaller ones around the city and several hotels around the globe,” he calls out. He comes back in moments later, two honey-colored drinks in his hand, and hands one over to Harry before sitting down on one of the big, fluffy white couches. “Diversifying your money is the best way to make more.”

Harry nods, leaning against the window, and tries to mask the horror that passes over his face as his taste buds meet the strong, bitter liquid. “I should be taking notes. You obviously know how to make money; I could learn a thing or two. College isn’t cheap.” He takes another sip, this one more careful.

“Learned it all from the best of the best; my mother is the family genius, after all.”

Harry smiles. “I should meet this grand woman, then,” he laughs, expecting a chuckle from Louis, but nothing comes. The man is frozen in his spot, drink mid-air, inches from his lips. Louis quickly recovers, giving Harry a short nod, before throwing back the rest of his drink. Obviously, he didn’t find Harry’s joke very funny. But _c’mon_ , clearly he was just playing; they both know that after tonight they’ll never see each other again, so there was no need for such a dramatic reaction.

Yet another reason why Harry wants to get the night over with and at the same exact time take everything so incredibly slow that the night will never end; tonight is the last time they’ll see each other. If he’s going to be honest with himself, he’s surprised he lasted this long. The last week was just filled with romantic dates and endless flirty text messages and gifts, and Harry loved every moment of it. While each date was an incredible gesture, his favorite time had been when Louis had brought him lunch and they both ate and read on campus.

That was also the day Harry met the true Louis Tomlinson. That day, there was no money or cars or flashy apartment buildings. There were no games and no players, and it was the most relaxed Harry had ever seen Louis. He wasn’t trying to impress him or show how romantic he can be, wasn’t trying to lavish him with gifts and expensive bushels of roses. No, it was just Louis, quiet and calm, looking young and open, and completely, mindblowingly beautiful.

That day, sitting underneath the big willow tree, Louis showed Harry who he really was underneath all that fake stuff, and Harry loved what he saw. There were real smiles and hearty laughs on several occasions throughout the lunch date, no heavy, steel masks covering up his true emotions, and it blew Harry away. Harry knows it’s just a game, all part of the ploy, but he still got a glimpse at the part of the man he’s not sure people see often. A rare, heart-stopping sight he got to witness for a tiny bit of time.

That day, with his least favorite book in hand, his head on Louis’ lap, the sound of the lake flowing, was the day Harry fell for Louis.

And he’s just figured it out. All throughout dinner, his mind was racing, wondering what exactly the feeling that was settling deep in the fissures of his bone was. He sat there, facing Louis and all his glorious beauty, and thought about the grand infatuation he feels for the man, the way his heart stammers every time his cell phone lights up with a text message from him, the way the sound of his raspy melody gives him shivers when they talk on the phone. It’s not about the sex, it’s more; it’s not about the physical aspects between the two of them, but also the emotions that run deep.     

And perhaps Harry is getting ahead of himself and it’s not love, but it’s something, that’s for certain. He’s never had this feeling before, not with anyone, has only read about it in the romance novels he used to steal from his sister and has only seen it on the silver screen. But felt it? Never, not until now—not until Louis.

That’s why now—as he sets his drink on the glass table with a tiny _clink_ and spread his legs apart to set a thigh on each side of Louis, straddling him with only the smallest of smiles—he puts his game face on. He leans forward to attach his lips to the man’s sweet, sun-kissed skin, and hopes that his face doesn’t reveal everything he feels, prays that when he pulls back and meets Louis’ eyes, there are glassy greens and lust-kissed lips, not a face that shows how much he hates that this will be the last time their skin touches.

This will be the last time that— _it’s just the way it has to be_ , Harry reminds himself, pressing chaste kisses on Louis’ jaw, it’s just the way things are. Louis Tomlinson isn’t a man that keeps boys around long after he fucks them, he doesn’t have boyfriends, and Harry’s sure the man is still in the closet. _Harry_ is the idiot who let himself fall in love with a man no one can have, a man who doesn’t _do_ relationships. He fell for a man set in stone, a diamond that can’t be broken, and it’s only been a few weeks, so what exactly was he expecting? He needs to get his shit together and just _deal with it_ for the night.

He knew it was going to happen. Tonight, they’ll finally fuck, and come tomorrow morning, Louis Tomlinson will act as though he’s never met a Harry Styles before, has never touched his skin or kissed his lips. It is what it is, after all.

Louis’ hands move to grip his hips, still as Harry presses light kisses to his skin; on the underside of his jaw, on the sharp of his cheekbones, on the small freckle on his forehead, on the crinkle by his eyes. Until, finally, reaching his soft, pink lips—lips as pink and as soft as the roses that still bloom vividly on his window ledge.  Harry entangles his fingers in straight, silky brown strands, and lets himself be engulfed in Louis’ mouth. There’s no tongue, it’s almost sweet, and the light taste of tobacco and whiskey on his lips are inviting instead of a turnoff.

Louis pulls away, instantly nipping at Harry’s jaw. “Would you like to go upstairs with me?” he asks rather quietly, almost hesitant.

Harry nods. “I would love to, Louis.”

“Are—are you sure?” Louis asks, and it’s like he’s—he’s _vulnerable_ , of all things. Like he’s the one who’s going to get his heart stomped on, not Harry. The younger boy doesn’t know what to make of that. His hold on Harry’s hips tightens, “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. We can, like, stay down here, too. Do you like Scrabble?”

“Uh, Louis,” Harry giggles quietly, “as much as I do love a competitive game of Scrabble, I think there are a lot more other… _games_ , I rather play.”

“Harry, we don’t have to, you know that right?”

Harry frowns against his skin. He presses a few, short kisses to his jaw before pulling back and taking a close look at his face. Louis, he looks nervous, cheeks flushed from something other than Harry’s embraces. His eyes are wide and that blue that he loves, but they seem—they seem almost _scared_ of something, and it puzzles the younger boy to no end. “It’s okay, Lou, I’m okay,” he presses a hard kiss to Louis’ lips, hopes it reassures him. “I’m not scared, if that’s what you’re worried about.  I’m not—I’m not afraid of _you_.”

Louis connects his lips back to Harry’s neck, kissing so softly the boy isn’t sure he’s actually touching him. “You should be,” he murmurs quietly against his skin, “I’m not a very nice person, Harry.”

 _No_ , Harry mouths against Louis’ cheek. “I don’t believe that, Louis, I can’t. Everyone has good in them, everyone. Even you; _especially you._ ”

Louis stammers, “I—I don’t want to hurt you.”

At that, Harry’s blood boils and his heart quickens, beating so hard it must leave bruises on his chest, and is that what this is about? Oh, how badly he wants to believe Louis, wants to believe that he won’t hurt him, won’t stomp on his heart with his fancy, Italian dress shoes, but he can’t. He’s going to get hurt, they both know this, and it’s too late for Louis to be saying things like that. At the end of the night, they still won’t want the same things.

Harry swallows the lump of coal in his throat, cradling Louis’ face in his hands. “I know that, you won’t hurt me, you won’t,” he lies; he tries to reassure him, tries to blink back at the moisture forming in his eyes. “I just want to be with you, I just want us to be together, for this one night, alright? C’mon.”  He crawls off the man, instantly missing the warmth underneath his thighs, and holds a hand out, which Louis accepts without hesitation.

The short trip up the stairs is filled with tension, both sexual and something else Harry can’t pin a name on. His hand in Louis’ is balmy, tense, and it takes all his strength not to squeeze back tighter. He doesn’t want to injure Louis; he will need those fingers, of course.

He doesn’t have much time to appreciate Louis’ bedroom and the art on the walls or the surely spectacular view, for he gets gently thrown on the king size, legs hanging off, and Louis crawling on top of him with a grin, before leaning down and capturing his bottom lip between pointy, white teeth, nipping at it before soothing over the skin with his tongue.

“How do you want to do this?” he asks. The Louis from earlier, the hesitant, concerned one, is completely gone, fell of the face of the Earth in a matter of seconds, and in his place is _this_ Louis, who’s looking down at Harry with nothing but hunger in his eyes, lust dripping from his words.

“Can I?” Harry squirms against the fluffy comforter beneath him, grabbing onto Louis’ biceps and pushing up against them gently. Louis raises his eyebrows—Harry has to stop himself from reaching up and tracing the soft curve of them with his index finger—and nods, but pauses, looking down at him silently for a few seconds, eyes flittering from his lips to match his stare, before pushing himself up and rolling over on his back.

The older man scoots up until he’s in the middle of the California king, legs splayed out. Harry climbs in between his legs and refuses to meet his eyes, afraid to get lost, and instead reaches behind him to pull off his shoes slowly, and then his socks. There’s no hesitation when he leans up, arms around Louis’ head supporting his body weight, and meets his lips. The kisses they share are no longer shy and slow, but hurried with fervor and longing, the type of kisses with clashing of tongues and dominance, the type of melding that leads to something more.

Harry’s hands travel south, pressing fingers against Louis’ hardening buds, pinching and earning a moan pressed against his tongue. He grips at his hips before playing with the hem of Louis’ black t-shirt, pulling it upwards until it’s bunched up above his pecs, and all Harry’s hands can do is roam around and greedily feel soft, firm skin, press fingertips into Louis’ waist until mauve marks blossom, trying to remember how warm and smooth he feels. It’s a struggle, but he is able to untangle his mouth from Louis’ and move further down, presses open-mouth kisses to his jaw, his neck, sucking slightly. He wants to bite down with sharp teeth and suck until caramel skin turns purple with bruises, but he doesn’t know how Louis feels about things like, doesn’t know if Louis would want Harry on his skin for days afterwards.

He slides further down the man’s body, lips kissing lightly at his chest. He rolls a nipple in between his teeth and grins against skin when Louis yelps from above him and all but pushes his head down further. His mouth ghosts against his taunt stomach, leaving a trail of open wet kisses until he reaches the waistband of Louis’ black jeans. Harry wants to be smooth and pop open the button with his mouth and pull down the zipper with his teeth, but when he chances a look up, Louis is propped up on his elbows, watching him intently with dark, hungry eyes ready to go in for the kill, and he needs him _now._

The stunning image of Louis throws Harry off his game, fingers twitching against the firm skin of Louis’ thighs. The older man is so, so incredibly beautiful, so that it startles Harry, because how is it possible? How can he be so goddamn striking? He’s gorgeous, even more so than he’d imagine him, thighs tense underneath Harry’s touch, muscles bundled up; ready.

Louis’ eyes—that blue color Harry might never find the right name to—are blown wide, glassy and foggy, like crystals, vibrant against the unforgiving black, ravenous. His sharp cheekbones are scattered with pink, flushed with a light sheen, and Harry wants to lean back up and press his lips against his skin, feel the warmth beneath his own flesh, but he needs to stay where he is, _wants_ to stay down by the man’s thighs, biting and licking at the skin, but the night is only so young, and Louis won’t wait forever.

Harry looks back down at the dark material inches from his nose and smirks, nuzzling against the seam of Louis’ tight, black jeans, causing a beautiful gasp to escape from the man above him, leg muscle twitching. He leaves light, wet patches as he presses open-mouth kisses across the fabric. It’s not hard to find the head of Louis’ thick cock, confined painfully; the heat attracting Harry’s mouth like a moth to a flame. There are hands grabbing tightly to his curls, pushing the headband on his head back until if falls off to the side, allowing Louis to grasp and tug with earnest when Harry mouths at the tip of Louis’ cock, licking over the rough fabric of his jeans.

He hums around Louis’ clothed cock, reeling in the pain every time Louis so much as tugs on his curls. He reaches up to unbutton and unzip the jeans, moving his legs to one side to shimmy them down Louis’ tan, toned legs. He throws them to the side of the bed and gets back into his spot between Louis’ thighs, mouth instantly meeting with the hard dick underneath a pair of black boxers.

“I need you,” Louis’ voice is firm and steady. “I need you, Harry, I need you.” He grabs a fistful of dark curls and tugs on them until Harry whines brokenly and shifts his body up, pressing his chest against Louis’.

Harry has to remind himself to breathe. “W-what do you want? I don’t know what you—what you want.”

Louis is blinking slowly up at him, his hands going to rest on the curve of his ass. “You do know,” he whispers hotly. “Don’t deny me, Harry.”

Harry nods, hair falling into his eyes and he tries not to collapse on the man underneath him when said man tucks the loose strands behind his ear. His mind is racing a hundred miles per second, this is it, this is _it_. “I don’t want this to be more than sex,” he lies through clenched teeth. “Just—just sex.”

Louis nods and presses a kiss below his ear. “Of course,” he licks gently, moving his lips down to place more kisses on Harry’s scorching skin.

Harry had to say that. He had to. He doesn’t _want_ it to just be sex, but that’s how it needs to be. What can he possibly do? _Just sex_.

“I’m sorry,” Louis pulls back to look him in the eye. “I know you think I’m a complete asshole, but this who I am, Harry.” His eyes are blue and sad and sincere. “I’m sorry I can’t give you more, that I can’t give you what you deserve.”

“I’m not asking for more,” Harry pants. The man underneath him is moving his hips up, hard lengths moving against each other hotly underneath layers, and Harry thinks he might explode in his jeans. Why is he still dressed? That’s _so_ unfair!  “We can have—oh, _God,_ Louis—we can have fun until this—un-until this is over.”

Harry closes his eyes as Louis’ fingers knot in his hair, their bodies shifting against each other in the simplest forms of pleasure. He tries to save the taste of Louis’ lips on him.

“Are you sure about this?” Louis grumbles against his lips.

“It’s just sex,” he repeats.

“Take your clothes off.”

Louis rolls him off of him and scrambles to the side of the bed, reaching into the nightstand. Harry wants to laugh at all of it, at all of the weeks spent with this man, at all of it ending like this. Instead he closes his eyes again and unzips his jeans, silently lifting his hips up and pushing them down to his feet, where they get stuck on his boots. He toes them off and sighs at the sound of them hitting the floor with a soft thud. With his eyes still closed, he shimmies off the rest of his jeans and unbuttons his shirt with shaky fingers.

He doesn’t get out of it, however, but listens to nothing. He doesn’t hear Louis shuffling through his nightstand anymore and it causes a moment of panic: did he leave him? His eyes snap open and turn towards the edge of the bed, where Louis is standing with one knee on the mattress, one hand holding a small bottle of lubricant and a condom, and the other hand is massaging himself over his boxers.

“I’ve been waiting a long time to call you mine,” Louis states as he crawls to him. He drops the small packages besides them and traces the dark color of one of the ferns on Harry’s bare hip with a thumb. “You were meant to be mine,” he leans down, pressing his lips against the black curves of Harry’s butterfly. He moves his mouth in endless circles, pressing chaste kisses to taunt skin, leaving smoldering flames in his wake.

That’s what Louis does to him, Harry realizes. He _burns_ him. Louis touches him, even the slightest, most innocent grazes, and then there’s a fire ablaze on his skin. There’s the burn mark of a scorching press of fingers or lips every time Louis touches him. God, Harry’s starting to believe he’s fireproof in a way, only wants more and more and more. He wants to take it all, prove his theory that Louis' fire can't stop him. He wants to take it all, continue loving him until he can't any longer, until he turns into ashes.

Louis shifts suddenly, sitting on his haunches, and his hands go directly to the hem of Harry’s boxers. He doesn’t say a word or meet his eyes, only drags the material down with ease, lifting his legs up, one at a time, to pull the boxers underneath and throw them over his shoulder.

Harry squirms as Louis climbs back in between his—now bare—legs.  He holds his wrists over his head, pinning him down, and Harry can’t breathe, chest moving up and down harshly. Louis leans down and kisses his neck, biting and pulling at the sensitive skin.

“You’re mine for the night,” he bites down at the contour of Harry’s clavicle. “Say it.”

Harry pants, “I’m yours.”

“Good boy.”

When their lips meet again with force, Harry tastes whiskey and mint and tobacco and a savor that is beautifully and plainly Louis Tomlinson. He could lick into his mouth all day, hold him tightly in his arms all night, feel his supple, warm skin against his for the rest of his life. Their lips lock together frantically, desperate, with a hold and passion he’s never felt before in his life, has never had the pleasure to experience. 

Harry squirms, struggling to free his hands; he only wants to grab onto Louis and press himself closer, it’s all he wants. Louis doesn’t let him budge, tightening his hold on his wrists, lips not faltering once. Harry moans when Louis finally licks into his mouth before he pulls away, and he hides in the crook of his tan neck, taking in ragged breaths.

Louis trails kisses down his jaw, stopping to lick a fat stripe against his neck. Harry throws his head back in bliss as the older man takes a nipple into his lips, sucking and licking it raw before biting down. He does the same to the other before moving down and licking over the extra small buds on his torso.

“Do you know how beautiful you fucking are?” Louis’ voice is rough and dry, like he’s parched after days on end in the Sahara. “I would fuck you everyday for the rest of my life if I could.”

_Then why don’t you?_

He continues to trail down Harry’s flat abdomen, lighting fires on his way. He pulls away after more light touches to jump out of his boxers, length fully hard. Harry pouts; will he get time to taste him? He’s been dreaming about it for _weeks_ , his mouth filled with Louis. He wants to ask, but Louis has other ideas, coating his fingers with lubricant.

“You’ve done this before, right?” Louis seems cautious.

“Yeah, ‘coarse,” Harry nods with a grin. He relaxes when Louis leans down again, pressing chaste kisses to his thighs, biting down lightly, gently circling his puckered skin before teasing one finger inside. “Oh, Louis, _please_ , more,” he whines lowly.

Louis obliges quickly, slipping a second finger inside, scissoring them with earnest. He enters a third, a broken moan leaving from Harry above, and crooks them, searching for that special spot. Harry yelps, face flushing, and ruts down on Louis’ hand when the older man hits his prostate.

“’M ready, ‘m ready,” he begs. He’s been ready for weeks.

Louis nods, looking at him through hooded eyes, long lashes fluttering against his cheekbones. He doesn’t take his eyes off Harry below him, squirming on the bed, and reaches blindly for the condom and lube. Louis pulls it on quickly and adds another layer of lube before lining himself up.

It’s overwhelming, at least for Harry. God, Louis’ not even in him yet and he can’t breathe, can’t think. He has tunnel vision, staring straight up at Louis, flushed and determined; it’s the most beautiful of all sights. He can feel him at his entrance and has to hold himself back from pushing against him.

“Turn over,” Louis commands. “Hands and knees.”

Harry scrambles, hanging his head low as small, firm hands grip his hips. _I’m such a fool_ , he thinks as Louis’ thumbs caress his skin. _Love?_ It’s not love, no, he denies to himself. _I’m not in love, I can’t be. Not with him_. He’s not in love as Louis' pushing into him, slowly, gently, with all the time in the world. Harry stretches around him, groans into his bicep as he falls onto his elbows.

He’s not in love as he groans out Louis’ name, as the man snaps his hips expertly into him, at an angle that hits his prostate with every thrust. Not in love when Louis yanks a fistful of Harry’s sweaty curls, keening, tears forming at the corners of his eyes because it feels _so good_ , because Louis _knows where to touch him, and when to kiss his neck, and when to bite at the back of his neck, and how much he_ loves _having his hair pulled_.

“What the hell are you doing to me?” Louis breathes.

It’s not love when Harry pants and chants Louis’ name like it’s all that’s in his vocabulary, like every other word he’s ever known has flown out the window. It’s just _Louis, Louis, Louis_. It’s not love when Louis flips him onto his back and pulls him until his knees are settled up on his shoulders.

 _It’s just sex, just sex, just sex_. _It’s not love, it’s not love, it is not love_.

 

 

“Fuck,” Louis pants, rolling on his back. He breathes heavily, pulling the condom off and tying it, before dropping it in the wastebasket underneath the nightstand.

Harry watches him with soft eyes, body trembling from the aftershocks, relaxing quickly. He’s still holding onto Louis’ bicep, even after the man moved to lie next to him. He doesn’t want to relinquish his hold on him. _Is this it? Is it over? Everything, is it over?_

Louis laughs suddenly besides him, grabbing his waist and pulling him on top of his sticky body. He mumbles nonsense in Harry’s ear, whispering words like _sinful_ and _beautiful_ and _unforgettable._

“The best—absolutely the fucking best. Never had sex _that_ good before,” Louis praises, running gentle fingers through Harry’s scalp, messaging the tender area.

Harry giggles from his spot on Louis’ warm chest. “I’m glad I lived up to your expectations.”

“I think we’re in dire need of a shower, wouldn’t you agree?” Louis licks a stripe down Harry’s shoulder. “You’re salty. I like it. Like salt and vinegar chips. De-licious.”

Harry beams. “A shower? Both of us? In one shower? I don’t think we’d get much done. Besides, are you up for another round—think you can handle it?”

“Please,” Louis sneers, “I have the stamina of a bull.”

“I rode one,” Harry adds. He climbs off him and crawls to the side of the bed before standing on wobbly legs. His legs feel like his dinner. “Although it was a mechanical one, but I excelled. I think there’s a video of it somewhere on YouTube.”

Louis rises his eyebrows at that, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, pulling Harry in between his legs by the waist. “Really? I might have to look that up.” He kisses Harry’s stomach lightly, muscles rippling underneath his lips. “But right now, I want to get you wet.”

He leads them to the bathroom and Harry’s chest expands with nerves. Like the downstairs area, the bathroom is large and abnormally clean. It’s white, from the marble floors to the sparkling granite to the smooth walls. It’s modern, incredibly futuristic with its fixtures and enormous glass shower door. It even reminds Harry a bit of Louis, with its strong lines and smooth surfaces.

“What kind of smell do you prefer?” Louis walks into the large space, flipping on the light. The bathroom might even be bigger than Harry’s own dorm. Louis walks over to a large, wooden bookcase-like piece of storage painted black. He opens up the two doors and reveals an array of toiletries; every body cleaning product known to mankind. Shampoos and matching conditioners, moistures, exfoliates and masks, shaving creams and razors, face creams, body washes.

Harry won’t deny his love for both Victoria’s Secret body lotions—the one with the shimmers are his favorite—and Bath and Bodyworks body washes, but this? This is a whole other level. This is the whole Men’s section of Bath and Bodyworks in one place, a whole corner of a CVS.

“Which smell?” Louis repeats with a grin. “Personally, I like this one. It’s very spicy with a bit floral in it.” He grabs a maroon bottle from the middle row and hands it over to Harry. “You, uh, you might like this one, too.” He hands over a smaller package.

The bulky, burgundy bottle has a gold plate on its’ front reading _Tom Ford – Jasmin Rouge_. Harry’s other hand holds the smaller, mint-colored tube with daisy detailing. Accordingly, it’s by _Marc Jacobs – Daisy Dream_. When he looks back up, Louis is still smiling wide, big hair products in his arms, and he looks almost—almost _giddy_ , if Harry’s not mistaken, with a slight bounce in his step. Maybe it’s the sex, or maybe it’s something else, but it puts a damper on Harry’s mood to know he’ll never see him again.

He smiles as convincingly as he can and hands the daisy bodywash back. “This jasmine one is fine with me,” he shrugs. “What—what is all this?” He takes a closer look at the small cabinet.

“Oh, uh,” Louis scratches at the back of his neck. “It’s just…”

“It’s okay,” Harry says, placing a hand on his chest. “You don’t have to explain.”

Louis nods and his smile is back, but not as a bright as before. “Do you think you’ll be able to handle the best shower of your life, Styles?”

Laughing, Harry wraps his arms around Louis’ neck. “Do your worst, Tomlinson.”

Louis backs up and closes the doors to the cabinet, before pulling the heavy glass door of the shower open, round ass bouncing with each step. “Ladies first,” he smirks, holding the door open.

Harry walks in carefully, watching in awe as steam fills the space and the many jets covering the tile walls seamlessly sprout warm water, immediately relaxing his muscles. It’s like a wet heaven, with the strong sprays of water working the knots from his back, rich jasmine feeding his senses. Louis slips underneath the shower head opposite of his, and Harry can’t make his eyes stray, watching the water fall slip over strong shoulders, slide easily down curves, and drip down thick thighs. It’s an Adonis standing underneath a waterfall.

Louis turns and snaps his eyes open, taking in all of Harry, and maybe Harry should cower back underneath the water to hide, but he’s glued to the tile beneath his feet as he lets blue eyes take every inch of him with no discomfiture in mind. He does close his eyes, however, lets the warm water ease him, and soon enough there’s extra heat behind him, strong hands massaging his shoulders.

“I meant it when I said you’re the best I’ve ever had,” Louis kisses his neck.

Harry stifles his laughter. “You the fuckin’ best, you the best I ever had, the best I ever had, the best I ever had, the best I ever—“

Louis tries to growl, but is interrupted by his own laughter, pulling Harry against his chest. “Drake, really? I’m trying to have a serious moment here!”

Harry hums in answer, completely content in Louis’ arms, warm water cascading down both of them.

Louis’ hand gets curious, crawling down until it reaches Harry’s ass, parting his cheeks. “You’re still so tight,” he murmurs to the crook of his neck. His finger slips in easily and Harry’s legs shake, still refusing to turn around. Louis pulls out his finger and keeps one arm wrapped around Harry’s waist, his other hand coming up to thumb at his nipple.

Louis lets go to travel down to Harry’s dick, growing hard underneath all the attention. He runs an index across the slit, holding the base with a firm hand. He hums, kissing Harry’s shoulder, and Harry can feel him swelling up against the curve of his ass, leaning back against him, letting the water continue to warm their bodies.

“I love touching you,” Louis whispers. He lets go of his sensitive head and continues with short pulls, “I loved watching you come. Tell me what to do, Harry, tell me and I’ll do it.”

“R-right there,” Harry whines as Louis lets his arm drop from around his waist and his fingers go back in between Harry’s cheeks. Harry’s own hand flies to the back of Louis’ head, bolting him to his body. His legs shake and his stomach churns, tightening and releasing with every thrust of Louis’ talented fingers.

“I can’t wait—I can’t wait to do this over and over and over and ove—“

That’s when, like with the water above him, everything comes crashing down on Harry. What is he doing? How did he let it get this far? Why is Louis saying bullshit like this, as if they’ll ever get another chance when the man made it perfectly clear that this night was a one time thing?

He backs up from Louis, slipping to the other side of the walk-in shower, underneath the free shower head. He has to get away from him, be it mentally or physically, has gain some control; otherwise he’ll never be able to leave. The whole damn reason why he’s up here in the first place is so that they can do what they need to do and then he can leave and move on with his life. He needs to shift things back in order, back in his favor.

“Did I—did I do something wrong?” Louis’ tone is shy. Harry turns and is shocked at the sight that beholds him; Louis, he looks _young_. He has that same juvenile curve on his face--with water-soaked skin, droplets covering from his damp hair, drops pooling on his silk lashes--that Harry first saw on their lunch date on campus.

“No—no, nothing’s wrong. I just don’t want me to have all the fun.”  Harry moves closer, sliding his hand down from the nape of his neck to his toned stomach, feeling muscles contract under his touch.  Louis only nods, lips parted. Harry slides down his lithe body until his knees hit the wet tile.

“H-Harry, you shouldn’t be doing this,” Louis falls back against the wall.

Harry ignores him. He’s been waiting for this since his eyes first fell on Louis Tomlinson, has dreamt about this and woken up painfully hard, throbbing in his pajama pants. He moves his hand and starts lapping at Louis’ length. He swirls his tongue around the red crown, keening at the precome he finds. Louis tastes so _good_ , Harry can stay here all night.

“Harry—Harry, I mean it, you need to get up.”

“Nuh uh,” Harry runs his nose against the firmness. Harry puts his mouth back on Louis, relaxing his jaw. He wraps a hand around the base of Louis’ cock and swallows around it until he reaches his fingers, moving them to grip at the thickness of Louis’ thighs. He moans around the sweetness, but suddenly pulls back when he’s yanked off and pulled upwards by his shoulders until he’s stand on his feet.

“Louis—? What’s wrong? I—“

Louis’ eyes are wild, blue and shaken, and his breathing is heavy, chest rising erratically. “I told you to get up,” he says grimly. He presses his lips together and closes his eyes. “I’m… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“Was I? Was I not any good? Did—“

“No, God—Harry, no. You were—you _are_ perfect.”

“I thought you would like it,” Harry admits confusedly, shying away in the corner.

“I do, usually,” Louis confesses. “I don’t want to see you on your knees, Harry. You’re too good for that.”

It takes Harry a long time to solve that riddle. He isn’t used to this Louis Tomlinson.

“You’re too good for that,” Louis continues. “I don’t—I don’t want to see you on your knees, not for any man.”

Harry doesn’t know what to say. His mouth fishes open and closed, but no words escape. What? _What_?  He nods dumbly.

Their shower turns from filth and groans to a sensual wash down. They don’t exchange many words, but Louis’ firm hands on his body say more than enough to Harry. Jasmin Rouge seeps into Harry’s skin and he leans against Louis' chest. It’s perfect, it’s sweet, and he doesn’t want to leave, not now, not yet, not ever.

It’s two hours later when they stumble out of the bathroom, each wrapped up in fluffy, Egyptian cotton towels. Harry brushing the slight tangles from his hair as Louis leans against the door frame, watching him silently with his arms crossed over his chest. Harry keeps his eyes on the mirror, refusing to see him, otherwise the strength he needs to leave will never show itself.

“Now what?” he murmurs, still brushing through his hair, even when all the kinks are gone and his strands are smooth and wavy.

“What do you want?”

“I don’t know,” Harry replies truthfully.

Louis looks down. “I guess… you can—“

“Can I stay until the morning?” Harry cuts off, refusing to hear whatever he was going to say. “Just until the morning.”

Louis looks at him perplexedly. “I don’t usually let men stay over.”

It’s a sharp pang that rips through him. Of course, _of course_ , Louis doesn’t let guys stay over after sex. This is just sex; after all, of course Louis will treat it as so.  He will treat Harry like every other man that has stepped foot in this palace, because he _is_ like every other man. He knew this to begin with, he can’t let it bother him now.

“It’s too late for me to go home now,” Harry lies. “Please?”

Louis huffs and rubs at his face with both dainty hands. “Uh, yeah I guess. Why not? Should I…Should I sleep in a guest room?”

“No!” Harry nearly yells, cheeks warming instantly. “I don’t want to kick you out of your room.”

“Are you okay with me—sleeping in here with you?” He asks, nodding towards the bed.

“Yes,” Harry whispers. He takes Louis’ hand and leads him back to the unmade bed. He takes a chance, letting the towel fall from his hips and pool at his feet. He steps out of the cloth puddle and climbs into the cool sheets they were tangled up in hours ago.

Louis looks torn, but drops his towel to the floor anyways and climbs in besides him. He lies down and Harry scoots over until he can rest his head on his chest, listening to the beat-drumming of his heart. Harry’s afraid to breathe too loudly or too hard or too anything; what if he wakes up and this is all a dream? What if Louis changes his mind and pushes him out of the bed? What if, what if, what if, what i—

“Alrighty then,” Louis shrugs underneath him and pulls the sheets around their bodies, not letting Harry budge from his chest. They’re still in their barest forms, limbs entangled and warm against each other, and Harry wouldn’t have it any other way.

The short seconds turn into long minutes and the long minutes turn into hours without a single word spoken between the two of them. It’s after hours when Harry finally feels Louis’ chest rise and fall rhythmically underneath him, and it’s also then that he decides it’s the right time to leave. He detangles himself from Louis nimbly and gazes with longing eyes at his body still wrapped up in the white sheets. Louis is incredibly, beyond that, so unbelievably beautiful, and Harry feels lucky for his time spent with the man.

He shakes his head and pulls himself together, climbing off the bed as quietly as he can possibly can, gathering his articles of clothing from where they are scattered around the room, throwing them on hastily. With a quick glance at the alarm clock on the nightstand, he sees that it’s nearly five in the morning.

He takes another long look at Louis, resting peacefully in the large bed not made for one. He’s dwarfed by the huge matter of it, nestled in the sheets smacked dab in the middle of the mattress. As much as Harry wants to say _fuck it_ , throw his clothes back on the floor, and climb back into the warm bed, he knows he can’t. He takes a gamble and places one last kiss on Louis’ pink lips before padding down the hallway and further down the stairs silently.

He pauses right in front of the elevator, hand stretched in midair to reach for the down button. Should he leave a thank you note or something? _No_ , of course not, that’s just silly. This isn’t just a one night stand, even though that’s _exactly_ , text-book definition what it is. It’d just feel wrong to do such a thing. He presses the down button and winces when the doors slide open with a ding.

It’s the right thing to do, he tells himself as he looks out to the awakening city flying past him. Chicago is still hazy with sleep, mumbling about coffee and morning runs and dog walks. The sky is painted warm hues of orange and red and pink and violet. Harry just—he couldn’t afford to get more attached than he already was, right?

This feeling—this crazy, awful, _burning_ feeling—inside of him gets stronger with every breath he takes, that’s why it was so painful to finally leave Louis, but he had to. He would never make it out alive otherwise. He could never change a man who thought nothing needed to be changed, and he would never want to in the first place.

Just one night. One night—from spaghetti to sex to showers to sleep; that’s all it took for one dinner and one fuck to turn from lust to love. But it’s always been love, hasn’t it? From the very beginning, maybe. Harry’s a fool to think otherwise, because it’s always been there, right from the very start. He just can’t stop wishing Louis would be a fool with him.


	11. Head and Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Not my plot, not my anything. I don't own this plot or these characters. Original is called There WIll Be Blood by Johnnyboy7 on fanfiction.net. I also don't own One Direction. Thanks.

* * *

 

_“The heart has its reasons which reason knows not.” ― Blaise Pascal_

He’s awake, but his eyes won’t budge open. His body is riddled with anxiety, it aches, muscles raw and wonderfully sore, like after a strenuous workout at the gym. His mind is still stuck in some sort of dream-mode, only now slowly coming back to reality; the only thing he can see is the black behind his eyelids. He hasn’t slept this well in over a decade, hasn’t let his mind run loose and free since he became involved in the family business. It all feels so… odd.

 _Harry_.

It all comes back to him so quickly. The events of last night hit Louis hard, imagines racing across the back of his eyelids. He suddenly realizes that, yes, last night was the most intense sexual experience of his life. It was just one time, yet it was enough to make Louis forget everything—from the business, to his family obligations, to any idea pertaining to the outside world. There have been early nights that dwindle into late mornings where he has been going at it like a bunny with a random partner, but after one round with Harry, he felt worn out, thighs trembling. Now, thinking about it makes him feel like an absolute idiot: how did he only ask for one night? One night and he’s done? That can’t be.

Harry makes no sense to him. No matter how hard he tries to make it seem like he knows exactly what’s going on, he doesn’t. He has not one single clue; nothing ever goes according to plan when it comes to Harry Styles. All Louis knows is that he craves more, needs more; that one time will not be good enough, that one time was not enough.

This is new; this isn’t like any other time. Boys never stay in his mind for much long, they never haunt his dreams, and they never lock themselves in his mind. They never, ever sleep in his bed. Harry’s different, a game changer.

Louis warned him, he did; he needed Harry to know that he couldn’t give him more, that he couldn’t give him more than sex. Harry didn’t seem to really mind, for some reason, adamant that it was just sex, too. Harry didn’t seem afraid of him, either. He didn’t seem to understand that Louis isn’t a nice, lovely person, or maybe he didn’t want to.

One thing that’s for sure is that Louis was shaken to his very core by the sex. It only happened once, but his body feels like it was run over by a bulldozer, like they were up all night fucking till the wee hours of the morning, even though that’s not the case. It doesn’t make any sense, not to Louis. It was only once, but Louis, he wants—he wants more.

From the way Harry said his name, broken and loud, to the way his body shook and his legs trembled and his stomached clenched, to the way he begged, clenching around nothing until Louis pounded into him. From the way Harry would bite down on his bottom lip to the way his blunt, pink nails dug into Louis’ back to the way his eyes would squeeze shut. Everything—everything about Harry drives him wild. Harry’s making him crazy—or crazier.

It’s all a bit insane to think about, starting with the fact the younger, curly-haired beauty stayed the night. He stayed the night. No one stays the night at Louis Tomlinson’s. He doesn’t like to sleep with people, in the literal sense, doesn’t like having men in the same bed as him, where he’s more vulnerable. Usually, after someone’s been on his bed, his natural urge is to immediately rip the sheets off and burn them, but with Harry, he kinda just—he kinda wants to roll around in them like a disgusting animal.

It feels as though the electricity is coming back to his body, humming to a start like an old machine in a factory on an early morning.  His neck has a crick in it and his spine cracks the moment he moves and he rubs the sleep off his face. He has no clue how long he’s slept for, or why Harry’s being so still next to him, but it’s possible he’s wasted the whole day or maybe the whole year, he doesn’t know. He hasn’t slept this good in ages.

His eyes flutter open, squinting at the small peek of sunlight trying to invade from behind the floor-to-ceiling blackout curtains, and when he gets a read at the alarm clock, he shoots up straight. It’s already noon! He never, ever sleeps so late, never. He’s so distracted by the fact that the rest of the bed is sans Harry, that he doesn’t pat himself on the back for a good eight hours, but makes a note to tell Zayn the good new; his brother being an avid sleeper, who shudders at the mention of less than a good eight hours.

“What the fuck?” He throws the covers off his body and frowns. Last he remembered, Harry’s warm body was splayed on top of his. He climbs off the bed as steady as he can, reeling in the aching sensation deep in his thighs. He peeps into the bathroom, empty, and crosses the room to closet door, surprised to see his clothes from last night neatly folded on one of his plush chairs instead of scattered on the floor. There’s no trace of Harry’s garments, either.

Once inside the closet, he pulls out a pair of boxers from a drawer and heads down to the living room, ears perked for any slight commotion. There’s no trace of the boy. Not in the living room, not in the kitchen, not in the dining room, or the game room, or any of the downstairs bathrooms, no where. There’s no note, no post-it, no messages or phone calls recorded on his phone. Nothing, there’s nothing.

It only takes one last search into an empty guest room for him to realize it all: Harry left. Harry did the same thing Louis would’ve done if they were in the same situation, and it makes his blood boil. Even though he knows, he still finds it improbable that he just got up in the middle of the night and left. No one has ever done that to Louis, not once, and he just finds it so—how could Harry have left without at least saying goodbye? Who the fuck does Harry Styles think he is?

It wasn’t supposed to happen this way, or end like this. He just got up after Louis fell asleep and left without a word, but it hurts to know that Harry was capable enough to flip their roles so seamlessly without Louis doubting anything. He doesn’t know if that’s what Harry had planned all along, but he doesn’t like the way that settles in him. He does know, however, that he’s made both men and woman feel the same way he does right at this very moment, but is it really _Louis’_ fault if he warned them ahead of time?

 

He flops down on his plush, white couch with a bottle of Jack in one hand, drinking it straight from the mouth. The glass walls on the downstairs area don’t have any curtains, allowing both the sun and the moon to illuminate the space, and he watches glumly as the sun settles high above the city brightly. It’s been two hours since he awoke and all he can do is take long, bitter pulls from the bottle and hover over the _call_ button on his phone, glaring at the sweet smile Harry sports on his screen.

So what? So fucking _what_ if fucking Harry left without saying anything? Isn’t that what he wanted all along? Isn’t an abrupt (and rude) departure better than having some clingy college _kid_ hanging off of him?

No. _No, of course not_ is the truth.

He knows that he’s actually pissed; he never expected things to end so abruptly and quick. He was expecting more time with Harry, even if only an hour or two with a shower and breakfast; even then, it would still be more time. It’s frustrating, knowing that his internal signals are all mixed up, that the needs of his body and his brain aren’t one, like always. Is it his brain? Or is it another important—annoying—organ?

“For fuck’s sake, Tomlinson.” Louis sits the bottle down on the glass coffee table and rests his elbows on his knees, face hiding in his hands. “Get your shit together,” he groans.

What is it about Harry Styles? Louis sure as hell doesn’t know. What is it about the boy that makes Louis want to stay in bed all day with him, lazily flipping through the TV channels, one hand nested in those curly locks? What is it about Harry that makes him want to take him out to expensive dinners, with seven course meals and rich, red wines? Why does he want to buy him silk scarves and shimmery nail polishes and bouquets upon bouquets of roses?

That sounds like something a—a _boyfriend_ would do.

He instantly cringes at the word. The word is loaded, it implies much more than what Louis can handle. For example, even if he wanted to, he could never give Harry the normal, fun relationship he deserves. He’s young, so incredibly handsome, and somewhere out there is someone who knows how to take care of him and provide him with everything he truly needs, like stability and normalcy.

The only problem is that Louis’ pulse races and his blood simmers at just the thought of Harry with someone else. No, no way, not in a million years! _Mine, mine, mine_ is the song the plays in his mind. He’s never felt so possessive over anyone before, and he can’t stand the very motion of it, but there’s simply nothing Louis can do about it: _he belongs to me_.

They’ve spent so much time together already, hell, they already fucked, they go on romantic dates, and they kiss on occasion. They fucking read underneath a willow tree, how much more couple-y could they possible get? How does one define _boyfriend_?

He’s so lost in his redundant thoughts, that the sudden ringing of his doorbell makes him jump. The chimes echo loudly throughout the lofty space, and he tries to get his heart to settle. He wanders into the back foyer as the bell rings again.

“Louis! Open up!”

Louis rolls his eyes and pulls the door open to reveal three impatient Tomlinsons. “You nearly scared the shit outta me, Lot.”

“Watch your mouth,” Johannah Tomlinson warns, pushing past her son with a dish in her hands.

Lottie gives him her trademark unimpressed glance and brushes past him to hang her jacket in the coat closet off the door and Fizzy follows behind with a smile and a, “Put some damn clothes on, Lou.”

Louis huffs and shuts the door, leaving the trio in his bare kitchen to head back upstairs for an outfit. He dresses in his favorite tight, black jeans and throws on a white _Stone Roses_ tank. He’s back downstairs in ten minutes, hair pulled back from his face and cologne sprayed on. Lottie is scrolling through her cell phone, Fizzy is preparing some tea, and his mother is frowning, poking about his empty cupboards.

“ _Bambino_ , should I start to worry?” Johannah asks, moving to frown at his fridge. “I don’t know if you actually eat or not.”

Louis goes to sit next to Lottie, pulling out a black stool at the square, marble island. “Ma, I’m fine, promise. I eat plenty.”

“You’re looking too thin to me, Louis. Look at your face! Your cheekbones will break through your skin any day now!”

“Ew, Ma,” Fizzy whines.

“He eats plenty,” Lottie repeats without looking away from her iPhone.

“What _are_ you going to eat today, Lou?” Fizzy asks, searching through the cabinets. Louis has to stop from shuddering at his little sister touching his things. It’s his little sister, for God’s sake.

“At least he has coffee.” Lottie raises her plain white mug. “Not a mocha frappe, but this will do for now.”

“Very funny, Charlotte,” Johannah scowls. “This boy has to eat something.”

“You do know you have two other boys downstairs, right?” Louis reminds her.

“ _Per favore_ ,” Johannah waves him off. “Liam loses weight as quickly as he gains it and you know Zayn has a naturally thin frame. You, on the other hand, could use some meat on those bones. Besides, I already dealt with them.”

Fizzy goes to stick whatever they brought in the glass dish into the oven, carefully placing it on the heated rack. “So.” she gently closes the door. “Zayn said you left _Jay’s Place_ with some dude last night.”

Louis freezes in his seat. He doesn’t have to look up to see the newly found tension in Johannah’s shoulders, and he curses both his nosy sister and brother. “Uh yeah.” He swallows hard. “I always do.”

Fizzy raises a dark brow. “The same boy you’ve been seeing for weeks now?”

Louis shifts a glare to Lottie, who’s suddenly quiet and incredibly interested in the non-existing dirt underneath her fingernails. Do they really, _really_ have to discuss this in front of their mother, who has made it quite clear she does not approve, or fucking tolerate, the idea of Louis wasting his time with a man? “Who told you that?”

Maybe it’s stupid of him to get worked up over this—they are a big, loud Italian family, after all; nothing can stay quiet for too long. The problem isn’t (but definitely, _definitely_ is) that Johannah knows now that he’s kinda (no longer) seeing someone, but that he doesn’t even have _answers_ to the questions everyone is so keen on hearing. It’s not like hearing about Louis from a different source is anything knew: his reputation has gotten back to his family through church, their friends, their inner circles, even the damn family business. The close family knows what his preferences are and that he’s never up to any good.

“No one told me.” Fizzy shrugs, sipping at her tea. “I do have eyes, Louis. You’ve just been kinda, I don’t know, different,” she beams.

“Different how?”

“I think I actually saw you smile the other day,” Lottie speaks up with wide eyes, like she can’t believe it either. “It was creepy.”

Louis grimaces, “I always smile!”

“No, like, really smile,” Fizzy corrects, pushing her dark, long hair over her shoulder. “You used to smile like that when we were younger, I remember.”

Louis glances over to his mother, who’s staring back with a stony expression. Alright then. It doesn’t even matter, Harry’s a thing of the past; his absence this morning only made that much clearer.

“What’s his name?” Fizzy asks with a timid smile.

But is he really a thing of the past if Louis wants him here, right now, with him, so badly? Maybe his sisters and their support can be an advantage to him. “Harry,” he admits. “His name is Harry.”

“Harry?” Johannah finds her voice. “That doesn’t sound very Italian to me.”

Louis quirks an eyebrow at that, because really? “Neither does Louis, Ma.”

“Or Charlotte,” Lottie says.

“Or Félicité,” Fizzy adds.

“You know the rules, Louis,” Johannah crosses her arms over her chest in defiance. “You can’t just be with anyone, male or female. Is he Italian?”

“Yes,” Louis lies on the spot. Truth is he doesn’t know, he doesn’t, and so if Harry isn’t Italian? It’s not like they’ll ever see each other, much less fucking _date_ , so it doesn’t matter. He finds it pointless for his mother to ask such a thing, somewhat cruel; _male or female_? What is she playing at?

“Don’t worry, Ma, I haven’t forgotten the rules of our mafia bequest.” Louis suppresses the urge to roll his eyes—that would’ve hurt.

“Well?” Fizz looks at him with identical blue eyes. Out of all his siblings, Fizzy is the only one who looks anything like him, with similar almond-shaped eyes, curved brows, and straight, chestnut hair. Fizzy is lively and hopeful, has an innocent demeanor about her, always looks for the best in people; everything that he’s not. “Where is he? I want to meet him.”

“I, uh.” Louis presses his lips together. “I don’t know if I’ll see him again or not, Fizz.”

Lottie’s head snaps up at that. “Dammit, Lou! How in the world did you fuc—mess this up?”

Louis gapes. “I didn’t!”

“I can’t believe you had to ask Lottie for help.” Fizzy laughs from where she’s taking the casserole dish out of the oven.

Louis glares at the blonde, who only holds her hands up in an innocent pose. “Okay, yeah,” he starts pulling up from his bench. “I just remembered I have a lot of work to do, can’t sit here gossiping with you ladies.

“No,” his sisters whine in union, Lottie pulling him back down to his seat.

“No, wait!” Fizzy pouts, pushing a plate of Estefano’s infamous lasagna towards him. “I want to know more, please? Lottie barely even told me anything! C’mon, where’d you meet?”

“At _Fiction_ ,” Louis replies, digging into the warm, delicious food in front of him. “Like, three weeks ago?”

“Oh,” Fizzy crinkles her nose. “He’s not one of…those, is he?” She asks, referring the to less than classy men he usually picks up for a good night.

“No,” Louis shakes his head. “No, Harry is—Harry is magnificent.”

“How old is he?” Fizzy asks after a short silence filled only with the clinking of silverware against the plates.

“Twenty-one.”

“ _Solo un bambino_ ,” Johannah clicks her tongue in distaste.

“He is not a child, Ma.” Louis narrows his eyes. “It’s only three years between us, nothing too bad.”

Johannah gets up stiffly and grabs her crocodile-skin handbag. “I’m going to speak to your brothers downstairs.” She pats him on the back on her way out, Fizzy skipping behind her mumbling something about Zayn and graffiti and artwork.

“So,” Lottie starts once the main door shuts softly. Her thumbs fly over her iPhone screen expertly. “Harry was here last night, huh? Finally met your match and all that.”

“My match—? And no, he wasn’t here last night,” he lies.

Lottie gives him an impressive eye roll. “Please, he was so here. Bet he left before you even woke up; no note, no text, no nothin’.”

“He played me!” Louis exclaims, looking as outraged as he feels. “This whole time, played me like a chess piece.”

“You did the same thing to him.”

“It’s not—it’s not the same thing, Lottie.”

Lottie hollers, “Why? Harry played your game, just a whole lot better. That’s got to burn. Besides, you like him.”

 “ _No_ , I don’t.” Louis stabs a piece of meat with too much force, wincing when his fork hits the ceramic plate. “I just wanted sex.” He shakes his head in frustration, poking at his lasagna repeatedly. “I already told you about this before.”

“Okay...” Lottie shudders, “I’m going to assume you already got the—oh, ew—the sex, and now what? He’s obviously still crawling under your skin and—will you stop stabbing that poor sausage!”

“Fuck.” Louis cringes and lets his fork drop. “Harry is—he’s still crawling under my skin, yeah, sure, you could say that.”

“Ah,” Lottie nods and reaches over to swipe a finger at the ricotta cheese on her brother’s plate, smiling as he grimaces. “There’s your problem, Lou.”

“I don’t know what to do,” he admits in defeat. “I can’t—I’m not good for him, y’know? I can’t be what he needs. Why are we even talking about this—it’s not like I could ever get away with seeing him, not with Ma around.”

“Worry about Ma later,” Lottie waves the worry away with one manicured hand. “Have you actually asked what Harry wants, or are you just assuming you know exactly what is good for him and what he needs?”

Louis squares his shoulders. “He’s too good for me, Lots,” he nearly whispers. “I don’t want to hurt him; I don’t want to do that. He’s so _sweet_ and—this is for the best. It’s just sex, Harry even said it himself. Multiple times,” he confesses with a mope.

“Just sex?” Lottie questions in an aberrantly soft voice. “Or did you— _ugh_ —make love? There’s a difference—so I’ve heard, stop looking at me like that—and it can be a very powerful thing.”

Louis blinks away all the thoughts forming in his mind about his little sister, promising to keep tighter tabs on her and her dating life. Just to be safe. He knows the blonde girl is in the right about Harry and the _making love_ crap, but he doesn’t really want to think too deeply about that. People who make love have _feelings_ for one another, feelings that are strong and run deep, and is it possible for Louis to have that, too? He can’t come up with any other logical explanation for the storm occurring in him.

“I—I,” he stammers, completely lost. “I don’t know.”

Lottie continues picking at his food, raising one neatly-trimmed brow. “What, Lou? Did you honestly think you were gonna keep living this way forever? One boy after another?”

“Yes—well, no. I was thinking of settling down with some pretty girl when I’m old, like thirty, and I have to take over for Ma. And, you know, get a little action on the side,” he speaks seriously, seeing the plans he’d formed late at night playing in his mind. “But, I mean, I totally could live this way forever—be the gay Hugh Hefner.”

His sister chokes and scrambles for her coffee, wincing at the taste. “That’s really cute,” she laughs. “God, you and Ma are practically the same. Not the gay Hugh Hefner shit, obviously, but you both try and act so tough. You can’t fool me, you know? Zayn and I? We’re on to you about this Harry pal.”

Louis glances up shyly at her. “How do you know me so well? I don’t—“

“I’m your sister, Zayn’s your brother.” Lottie shrugs indifferently, like her simple answer is enough to unlock all the questions of the world. “We care about you, even if you’re a dick.”

“I suppose.”

“Anyway, back to Harry. You’ll never be able to get him outta your head, not unless you do what you think is right, what feels right. It’s not about what your head says, but what your hea—“

“I can’t give him what he needs!” Louis repeats with exasperation. Why doesn’t Lottie understand that? Why is it so hard for _him_ to wrap that around his own mind? Why does he _want_ to give Harry, with his grinning dimples and soft curls, whatever he needs?

Lottie sighs and stands from her stool, dropping their dirty dishes into the dishwasher before pressing a few buttons and flitting back to lean against the island. “Lou, c’mon, you know what to do. Grow up and be a man, _segarsi_.”

Half an hour later, Louis is back to sitting on his lush couch. Johannah, Lottie, and Fizzy are all back in the kitchen, lingering about, doing who knows what, and frankly, Louis can’t be bothered to find out. He just hopes they quit touching his things, it makes the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

The door to the penthouse slams open and he can hear Liam’s friendly voice echo through the large space. Louis sighs. Why can’t people just be polite and come up through the elevator and wait there until he allows them access through the main foyer? Do they _like_ ringing his doorbell like mad women and banging his doors open like a _cazzo_? He just wanted a nice, relaxing day where he could sort through his messy thoughts with a Marvel movie, some buttered popcorn, and maybe (definitely) some alcohol. Clearly, that’s too much to ask for in his family.

“Hey, Lou,” Liam greets, flopping to the empty spot next to him on the couch. His jeans are low on his ass and his tank is tight and fitting on his body underneath a light leather jacket, and his bulky construction boots look dirty. Louis doesn’t want to lean down to see his white carpet. Liam’s hair is cut again to a short buzz, and Louis knows that no matter what relationship situation his brothers might be in, Zayn’s fingers have already been through those short strands today.

“We got work to do, bro, Ma needs us,” Liam says, grabbing the remote from the glass table in front of them to flip through the channels. “You ready?”

“Nah, I don’t want to,” Louis replies, crossing his arms over his chest like a spoilt child. He knows he’s been acting like a kid since the moment he woke up, so why stop now? He can still feel his blood humming through his veins angrily because of Harry’s early departure, but he’s a bit settled with Lottie’s words.

“Not a choice,” Zayn speaks up as he crosses the room and lands on Louis’ other side. He’s matching with Liam—surprise, surprise—and has tight, black skinny jeans with a zipped up leather jacket, hair shaggy and loose, inky black. “It’s about Dattolo.”

“Dattolo,” Louis’ voice drips with acid, head leaning back on couch. Agosto Dattolo was one of Louis’ father’s greatest friends and oldest confidants, and after Marcos Tomlinson died, that Dattolo stuck around and became Johannah’s confidant. They all had known each other for decades, and even though Johannah is twenty or so years younger than him, Dattolo sort of looks up to her, praises her. Dattolo has been working with one Tomlinson or another for basically his whole life, dealing and getting his hands on anything and everything.

No one is perfect, however, and Dattolo is a weak, poor man. He always runs at the first sign of trouble, hibernating until the coast is clear, something Louis can’t stand in a man. The time has come for him, and to be frank, Johannah is tired of the man, something Louis can understand. Friend or family or nothing at all—there is no such thing as a bailout or a second chance in their world. Someone like Dattolo needs to be dealt with; Johannah is tired of wasting her time with people who have tried to screw her over, rightfully so.

There’s been evidence that Agosto Dattolo has been leaking information to the police, adding fuel to the fire. Even if the Tomlinson’s did give second chances, they would never even let those two words cross their minds when dealing with a traitor. It’s bittersweet: taking a plausible enemy out while losing someone who almost practically raised the Tomlinson boys. Louis tries not to remember all the times he asked Uncle Dattolo for help when first learning to shoot with a sniper rifle.

He closes his eyes and sighs. “Can’t you two deal with it?” He knows that Dattolo is still in the hospital recovering from knee surgery, so it should be easy as hell. It’s not like he could run, anyway.

“You’re so moody,” Liam flicks him on the side of the head. “Are you PMSing?”

“Harry,” Louis breathes out, and instantly regrets it the moment he does so.

Zayn laughs, “Did you two finally fuck?”

Louis grimaces, “Uh, yeah.” They didn’t fuck; they _made love_ , according to Lottie. _Fuck_ just sounds too harsh of a word, too callous for the tender touches they exchanged.

“Was it good, though? I mean, like, I don’t really care? I just want to tell Perrie, she asked me to ask you,” Zayn says.

“Perrie?” Louis’ eyes shoot open and he fights the urge to turn and look for Liam’s reaction. “As in Edwards?”

“Yeah.” Zayn nods, turning his gaze to bounce it across the room. “We’re going out tonight, dinner and shit. She’s nice. Pretty, too.”

 _Dinner and shit_? C’mon, Zayn, surely you could act a bit more interested. Louis doesn’t have a clue as to what’s going on with Zayn and Harry’s best friend, or Zayn and Liam, for that matter. It’s much too early and the Jack Daniels is sitting in the pit of his stomach with only a few scraps of lasagna, doing him no good.

“So? Was Harry good?”

“Yes, of course.”

“You’re satisfied, then?”

“Not one bit.”

“Oh?” Zayn turns his curious eyes to Louis. “I thought you said only one—“

“Don’t you think we should get going?” Liam interrupts with an unusually cold expression. “Ma must be getting impatient, and someone is going to have to force Lottie out of your door, Louis, because you know she’s not going to go willingly.”

 

They leave the penthouse a whole hour later, Lottie quiet and pouting, but tapping her fingers happily across the steering wheel of Johannah’s new Escalade as a part of their compromise. It starts to drizzle as Johannah starts lecturing them about something or another, Louis’ mind far away in the second row of backseats with Zayn, thoughts forming quickly on Harry. It seems that he’s the only thing Louis can focus clearly on during anytime of the day. It sucks, completely, utterly, totally _sucks_.

Lottie pulls up sharply to the underground parking lot of Northwestern Memorial Hospital, and Louis sits up quickly. It’s stupid, searching for Harry, especially in such a big campus, and besides, what would he be doing around the hospital, anyway? It’s raining, this whole situation he’s in is stupid, and he might just be going insane. His sister parks on the second deck and they all follow Johannah inside.

“Leave the guns behind in the Cadillac,” she instructs. “There’s no need for that.”

Louis, Zayn, and Liam all meet each other’s curious gazes and unload their equipment in the SUV quietly. Louis keeps his small, handy Springfield Enhanced pistol on him, just in case. You can never be too sure.

It’s this Johannah—the one walking in front of him in a sleek pencil skirt with black, patent leather Pigalles tapping against the linoleum—that scares him. Her face is relaxed, ceased of any emotion as they walk down the hallways. There’s not once ounce of anxiety or nervousness, or remorse for what they’ll do—that’s why Johannah Tomlinson is the best, and while Louis is good, he still has much to learn.

“Do we really have to do this to Uncle Dattolo?” Lottie asks quietly, voice almost lost over the sound of doctors and nurses coming in and out of the doors and patients voicing their concerns. Lottie almost sounds like she’s pleading.

Johannah doesn’t answer, and instead pulls out a pair of leather gloves from the pocket of her beige trench coat, gracefully pulling them on before hitting the correct button on the elevator when they step inside. No fingerprints, not now, not ever; one of the many golden rules. They follow in her lead and pull on their own variety of gloves, Lottie glumly reaching into her peacoat for hers.

“Wilds has been following us,” Johannah breaks the silence with her mumble.

Louis blanks. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Jacen Wilds, that detective. He’s been following us, all of us,” she clarifies. “I see him all the time.”

“Is there a problem with him, Ma?” Liam asks.

“No, _caro_ , not one bit; he’s just a sloppy man, I see him everywhere. I don’t like that he’s watching us when the little ones are around, but I just wanted to make you four aware of this.”

“Fizz and I saw him the other day at the mall,” Lottie adds in with an eye roll. “The _cretino_ was acting like he was really interested in a lace babydoll when we were in Victoria’s Secret.”

“I don’t like that one bit,” Johannah taps her heel against the floor and narrows her eyes in impatience at the slowly-changing red numbers above the elevator doors. “He’s getting too close. Daisy told Dan this morning that she saw him wandering around her music school. I don’t want him around the girls.”

“I’ll do a background check, then,” Louis sighs. “I know I can dig something up against him just in case he tries anything.”

Johannah nods. “He has to have something we can hold over his head. School loans, a sick aunt somewhere, gambling debts, maybe some children of his own or a wife, something. He won’t be too hard to deal with if the time comes,” she says distractedly, mumbling to herself.

The doors ding open a few floors later, and they walk out into the bright, fluorescent lights. They move confidently around hurried nurses and stressed doctors until they reach the reception, where a tired, young lady sits behind a computer chair. The woman gapes and pulls herself together in a matter of seconds, slapping on a dazzling, painful smile. Louis is almost impressed with her show.

“I’m here to see Agosto Dattolo,” Johannah replies gently.

“Are you, uh—?” the receptionist can’t take her eyes off Liam for more than a few seconds, batting her lashes painfully. “Are you family?”

“Yes, I’m his niece. We’re all family,” Lottie speaks up curtly, tapping her foot on the floor like her mother did moments earlier.

“Right, well.” the woman twirls a piece of her hair around a finger, biting her lip mock-shyly, eyes still glued on Liam. “He’s really not supposed to have any visitors, but, um, I guess I could let you in? It’s room 669.” She winks at Liam and Louis doesn’t have to turn around to see the embarrassed flush spreading through Liam’s cheeks or Zayn’s annoyed glare.

Johannah thanks her simply and saunters down the hallway with nothing but pure confidence, not one lick of hesitation or fear. Louis understands it and at the same time doesn’t get it. He’s killed many men in his short life, but never anyone that’s family, or close to it. He could do it, of course, he knows that—he could kill someone that’s family, there’s no doubt in his mind that he could go through with it, but he knows there’d be hesitation before doing the deed. His mother on the other hand—she’s cold as ice, that it causes _un brivido_ to run down his spine.

They arrive at 669 too soon, and Johannah pushes the door open with one gentle, gloved hand. Dattolo is sleeping soundly in a blue gown with sheets covering his legs, multiple IVs hooked up to machines behind him, beating heart sounding off loudly into the quiet room. His young wife is resting in a chair at his side, head lying on the side of the bed.

“He was a mentor to you, Ma.” Louis feels the need to remind his mother. Johannah goes to an empty, plastic chair near the bed. “He was one of Marco’s best friends; he was a mentor to my father, too.”

“He was a mentor,” Johannah agrees. “That’s quite true. Your father loved him, Louis, but he was just a mentor. Don’t ever get too attached. I don’t trust anyone but my mother, and even then...”

“Not even us?” Liam asks silently.

Johannah purses her lips in thought and crosses her legs, but doesn’t answer. She clears her throat loudly and starts humming what Louis believes to be _Let It Be_ by The Beatles loud enough to wake Dattolo with a panicked start, the sick man’s face paling instantly.

“Why, Johannah! Boys, Lottie,” Dattolo nods. The heart monitor next to his bed starts beeping quicker. The man’s breathing becomes notably shallower, and he tries to sit up as much as he possibly can in bed, waking up Dalia, her lip quivering at the sight of the Tomlinson’s.

“Are you scared, Agosto?” Johannah asks calmly, eyeing the heart monitor’s erratic lines.

“Of what? I’ve got nothing to be afraid of.”

“Do you think I would come down here if I didn’t have a sold reason?”

Dattolo tries to laugh, throat wheezing. “Perhaps you wanted to bring me flowers.”

Louis can tell his mother’s patience is running thin. “I never really had a love for flowers like most women,” Johannah says. “Sure, I’ll agree they’re beautiful, and yes, they can fill a room with their perfume. They always disappoint me; they only ever wither up and die. A waste of time, don’t you think? They never were convenient for me, always had to throw them out, anyway. ”

“I don’t think I follow.” Dattolo swallows thickly.

“ _La pura verita_ ,” the strong woman replies. The simple truth is all she’s asking for.

Dattolo’s heart rate rises once again and he scrambles to sit up on the hospital bed. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!” Dalia tries to help him sit up, but her hands are slippery with sweat.

Louis steps back to stand by his brothers at the door and Lottie grabs onto his arm, her big, blue eyes filled with tears at the sight in front of her. He worries about his sister, worries that she won’t be able to handle the sacrifices that the family business comes with, but their mother is so adamant to have another strong, powerful woman boss in the family. With the way Lottie’s frame is trembling, Louis’ not too sure how that’ll end up.

“Don’t play with me, Gus,” Johannah continues. “We don’t have the kind of time that comes with dealing with your useless lies.”

“I’ve been nothing but a friend to you, Johannah! I was there when Felice first brought you home to a dinner with the family; I was there when you lost him and all you had with your boy, Liam. I was there at your wedding with Marcos and at Louis’ Christening. I held your weeping body as they lowered Marcos’ body into the ground! This is how you treat me? How you repay me?”

Dattolo moves to hit the nurse’s button, but Lottie jumps up quickly and blocks his arm. The young girl looks as surprised as Louis and the others feel, but quickly shakes it off and bows her head. “M’sorry, Uncle Datto,” she whispers.

“Dalia,” Johannah addresses the now-sobbing woman. “Why are you so sad, _cara_?”

“I-I don’t want to lose him, Jay, _please_ ,” she whimpers. “He never meant to do anything!”

“ _Cazzo_!” Dattolo growls, “Dalia, _puttana_!”

Johannah folds her hands over her knees and breathes out deeply. “Okay, Agosto, let’s be honest here—ow long have you been leaking information and to whom?”

The old man snarls, “I don’t have to answer to you!”

Johannah pauses before she nods. She uncrosses her legs and pulls open her handbag, pulling out a clear, plastic baggy. Louis winces at the sight of the syringe and the long needle, all ready and filled up with a toxic, cloudy liquid.

“I-I never betrayed you! Johannah, we’re family; I would never do such a thing!”

“You don’t think I have people in the police department? I’m not a stupid whore, Gus, not how you like to say I am,” Johannah speaks lowly, viciously. “I know you’ve been spilling information for _months_ now. It was only a matter of time before everything caught up with you, _caro_ Gus.”

“They’re wrong.” Dattolo shakes his head frantically. “They’re—they’re framing me, Jay! They’re tryna take me down, too!”

“Good. They should’ve. You’ve never been loyal to me or my children.”

“No, no, I have, I have, I—“

“No, you haven’t. You leave me high and dry and go skipping off with your twenty-year old mistress to some island in the Caribbean when shit hits the fan,” Johannah interrupts. She stands and taps the syringe twice on its length, moving towards Dattolo’s IV.

“No, _no_! Jay, please, Jay!” Dalia is off her chair and on her knees, hands clasped in front of her in a praying motion, trying to grovel at Louis’ feet. “Please, Louis, stop your momma, please! He didn’t mean it, Louis, I promise, I swear, he didn’t! He won’t do it again, no, no, he won’t. Please, _please_.”

Louis keeps his cold eyes set on her like stone. He doesn’t flinch, not when she wraps her arms around his legs, not when she falls to the floor, not when she sobs and begs and asks for forgiveness, not when she asks to take her husband’s place. He feels his sister quaking at his side.

“I can’t help you,” Louis says almost inaudibly. “You broke the rules, now you have to pay.”

“I didn’t do anything!” Dattolo begs as Liam holds him down to keep him from thrashing on the bed. Zayn hurries over to hold his hand over Dattolo’s mouth as Johannah quickly empties the liquid into the IV.

A simple overdose of Potassium chloride, a heart attack to follow with an unknown cause, and the job will be done. Simple, deadly, and clean—Louis’ favorite method.

It takes less than an hour for it to do what it needs to do. In that time, Lottie cuddles underneath Louis’ protective arm and Liam pins Dattolo down to the bed while they all say the rosary, his begging and pleading background noise. Dalia breaks down and Louis has to grab her, pinning her to the wall with a gun held to her throat to keep her from screaming again.

In the end, Lottie has makeup smeared underneath her eyes as Liam goes to unplug the heart rate machine to not alert any doctors and Louis slocks the door. When they leave room 669, Zayn’s grip on Liam’s arm is deadly, Lottie is cowering besides Louis as he locks the door behind them, and Johannah Tomlinson is walking ahead of time, heels tapping loud and carelessly on the squeaky clean floor, her head held high and proud, stance firm and confident.

Now, they’re another family member down.


	12. Tulips and Truths

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing these disclaimers is so annoying, but alas.   
> Disclaimer: This is not my story, I just rewrote it featuring Harry and Louis and the whole gang. Not my characters, not my plot, not my idea. I also don't own One Direction.

* * *

 

  _How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard. - A.A. Milne (Winnie-the-Pooh)_

 

Normally, Harry’s a sucker for fall. He loves October and everything that comes with it; from the leaves turning burnt oranges and bright yellows and slowly falling down, to the crunch they make underneath his boots as he walks. He loves all the cute, decorated pumpkins outside all the shops, and the aisles at Walgreens filled with ‘scary’ goblin masks and cheap, delicious candies, and the fact that _Hocus Pocus_ is on practically every channel. He loves finally being able to pull out his favorite cozy, knitted sweaters from the back of his closet and light up his favorite Yankee candle, _Pumpkin Ginger Bark_.

In Boston, he would dress up the family cat and coo at every child that rung his doorbell on Halloween. He and his mom would go apple picking at the nearest orchid for the best, homemade apple pies and then days later visit a pumpkin patch. He would buy pumpkin flavored _everything_ and cuddle up by the fire in the living room with a mug of cocoa with marshmallows. On the weekends, he would dress up and get drunk to suspiciously flavored pumpkin beer and eat too much chocolate.

This October, he’s not home in Boston apple picking with his mom or decorating sugar cookies with his sister. This fall hasn’t, well—it hasn’t started out so great. In fact, Harry would say it’s on the verge of being _miserable._ He’s sulking, that’s all, and it sucks.  He should be discussing costumes with Perrie—last year he went as VMA’s Miley, and let’s just say he _rocked it_ ; honestly, he’s not sure how he’s going to top that—and exploring Chicago during the best of all seasons.

No, instead he’s thinking about stupid Louis Tomlinson and about how it’s been three stupid days since he left the man in bed, and it’s all just so—just so—just so _stupid_. He’s pouty and snippy, with a stinking bad attitude, and he wants nothing more than to just stay in bed and watch depressing documentaries on Netflix about how the world is going to end. (Also a lot of rom-coms, because, hey, he’s _hurting_.) He just can’t stop thinking about the _what if_ ’s again. What if he had stayed, what if he hadn’t left? Where would he and Louis be now? Where would they stand? Would Louis remember him the next day, or purposefully forget everything that happened between them? Did Louis even care that Harry had left—did he think about him even just a _tiny_ bit?

Harry knows it’s useless to even play with the possibilities—of course not. Why the hell would Louis Tomlinson be thinking about Harry, of all people? It was just sex—how many times will Harry have to repeat that to himself? Maybe that’s what bothers him the most; the fact that Louis treated him like any other boy in his bed.

It’s been three days since the best and worst day of his young life, and he’s sulking in class, like any right teenager would do after heartbreak. His professor is at the front of the room, writing sloppily on the whiteboard, and maybe Harry should be taking notes or something, but he can’t be bothered. He’s _hurt_.

If he had never gone to that stupid club with Perrie, he would be just _fine_ , living and breathing normally, taking notes and paying attention like a good student. It’s just—every day spent with Louis was amazing, and now every moment spent together is overshadowed by the fact that they’ll never see each other again. It’s not like Louis is out looking for him, and Harry knows he’s in no position to ask anything of him, especially not like a-a—relationship. Is that even what he wants, a relationship?

He’s hasn’t even been in Chicago for less than three months and look at him! All Harry is, is a college freshman, all he ever wanted was to make something of himself, and here he is, moping over a _man_. He made a promise to himself months ago to stay true to himself and stay focused, not get sidetracked by relationships and boys, and look how well that went.

Does he even want a relationship with Louis? _No_ , of course he doesn’t. Well, maybe? Would it be the worst? No, no, he doesn’t. He doesn’t need a man, he’s strong and independent, so. No—maybe? Yes…?

_Louis doesn’t do relationships_ , Harry reminds himself. It’s all moot.  All Harry’s sure of is that he does want to spend more time with the older man, and hell, if there’s sex, then so be it. If it were up to Harry, he’d be more than happy to snuggle with Louis at the library by the fire, reading their favorite books. Is that what boyfriends do? Labels, labels—none of those matter along as Harry gets to have him in some way.

The sudden vibration coming from his backpack at his feet startles him. He looks up to see his professor still at the board and sneaks his iPhone out of the pocket. It’s Perrie, of course. He rolls his eyes at the pictures she sent of a costume and her _I’m a mouse, duh_.

His blonde friend knows of his late struggles, obviously, and as much as Perrie tried to cheer him up, there’s only so many times he can watch _Bridget Jones’ Diary_ and eat Cherry Garcia. Besides, the girl is usually out with Zayn; another reason why Harry is hesitant on spilling it all to her; the girl has a mouth and he doesn’t know how much could get back to Louis through his brother.

“Kid with the _Obsession_ sweater—care to help us out?”

Harry’s head snaps up and he flinches when he sees all eyes on him. His math professor is looking at him expectantly and—what? “Uh, sorry, what was the question?”

The teacher sighs and taps the board with his pointer. “This right here.” The bald man flips through some papers, “Harry, is it? The equation, please.”

Harry blinks at the board. He looks down at his notebook, internally cringing at the random doodles he’s been mindlessly drawing for the last half hour. Two rows in front of him, Taylor rolls her eyes and sighs, turning back to the front of the class. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I—“

“Kid with the blue hair, do you have the answer?”

The next three people after the kid with the blue hair don’t have the answer, either, and it makes Harry feel a small fraction better. The next half hour is spent with his foot propped up against the empty chair in front of him, doodling in the margins again, trying to ignore Taylor’s constant hair flipping.

When he’s finally freed, the air outside feels chilly, a stark contrast from the September heat they were in only a few days prior. Perrie had said Midwestern weather is always unpredictable, but that it should get colder as they get further into fall.

He walks back to his dorm calmly, stepping on as many fallen leaves as he can. In his building, he waves at the doorman and heads up in the elevator, his bones aching with something he can’t name. When the doors ding he open, he steps out and turns to his hallway, stopping dead in his tracks when he sees someone bent over in front of his door.

He recognizes the girl as his neighbor, a particularly nosy redhead he can’t remember the name of. Perhaps he should be annoyed that the girl is snooping through his shit again, but he can’t even speak, his eyes glued to the bushel of flowers at her feet. Two dozen red and white carnations, all in bloom, with a cute pattern on the petals sitting in another round, glass vase.

Are they—? Could they be—?

“Harry!” The girl nearly falls onto her bottom when she sees him. “Nice flowers!”

“Thank you,” Harry replies softly, edging closer to his door.

“Who are they from?” She asks, stepping back to lean against her own door.

Harry bends down to pick up the heavy ornament. The flowers smell so fresh; their petals feel like velvet between his fingers. “I don’t know,” he lies.

“The note says _Louis_. Who’s Louis? Is he French?” The girl gasps, “Are you _gay_?”

Harry snaps his head up, anger blossoming through him. “Don’t you have anything better to do than snooping through people’s stuff?”

“Uh, not really.”

“Well,” Harry frowns. “Go away,” he says.

The girl widens her eyes, “But who is Louis? Harry, is that your boyfriend? I’m totally for LGBT rights!”

“That’s nice.” Harry fumbles with his keys. “Please don’t look through my personal items again,” he smiles tightly at her as he shuts the door on her nose.

He throws his bag on his bed, rushing over to his desk. His other flowers died days ago and the room feels new, fresh, with the carnations. He hadn’t noticed something was missing until he sees the way the flowers lighten up the small space. There’s a small white envelope in the bushel, and when he goes to pick it out, he notices his hands trembling.

“Breathe, Harry, c’mon.”

He opens the envelope carefully, breathing out heavily before picking out the small card.

_-Louis_

That’s it. That’s it? He flips it to the back, but that, too, is empty. What does that mean? He drops the card on the desk and frantically pulls out his phone from his front pocket, booting up Safari. _Striped carnations_ , he types in the search bar.

_A striped carnation means "No." It is a symbol of refusal, and says, "I'm sorry I can't be with you, but I wish I could.”_

Oh. Harry falls back on his bed, air leaving his lungs. Flowers; Louis sent him flowers to say he’s sorry? There’s a million and one ways to say sorry, but Louis sent him flowers that signify is specific type of sorry—he’s sorry for more than he’s letting on. A smile appears on Harry’s lips and _oh, oh, oh_.

This means—this mean Louis _is_ thinking. There’s really no other explanation for the flowers, other than he’s sorry, but yes, Louis Tomlinson is still thinking about him. Is there hope for them, after all? Harry squeals and covers his burning face with his pillow.

He orders takeout and sits in his room for the rest of the night, the smile never leaving his face. He realizes that this—this thing between him and Louis—it’s no longer a game, and as scary as that it, nerve wrecking, it’s exciting. To Harry, Louis has never left his mind, but what could possibly be going on in that noggin of Louis’? He’s probably confused, frustrated, even, questioning everything he once thought he knew.

They’re in the same position, if you think about. It didn’t matter how hard they fought one another, they’re still being pulled together despite everything. Is it fate? Destiny, perhaps? Maybe Harry is getting out of hand, but he wishes he could take a peek inside of Louis’ mind.

Harry frowns for the first time all night; what kind of fucking relationship is he going to have with a twenty-four year old man? On top of that, Harry lied and told Louis he was twenty-one! There’s a six year gap between them, but why doesn’t Harry feel it when they’re together? Although it doesn’t even cross his mind when he’s by Louis’ side, he knows that believing both of them could be together, in the real world and outside their bubble, is just childish.

_I’m sorry I can’t be with you, but I wish I could_.

By the time he’s snuggled in his bed, he hasn’t done a lick of studying. He’s tired, bones weighing him down. When there’s a pounding on his door, he starts, shooting straight up. He knows by the thumping it’s only Perrie, and looking at his alarm clock he groans; it’s already eleven and he’s sleepy.

“Go away, Perrie!” He shouts, crawling underneath the covers again.

“I bring gossip,” she sing-songs. “It’s about _Lou-eeee_!”

Harry’s ears perk up comically. He doesn’t move, “What gossip?”

“Let me in!”

“Let yourself in!”

The lock turns on command and Perrie stumbles in, mumbling nonsense about extra keys and laziness and her _damn, stupid, uncomfortable heels_. She flips the lights on and Harry squints, coming to sit on the edge of his bed.

“Hello, sleepy.”

“You look nice,” Harry peeks over his bedspread.

Perrie grins and smoothes down the skirt of her lavender dress. “Thank you, I had a date with Zayn tonight. Oh! Which is why I have news for you.”

Harry groans, pushing the covers off his chest and sitting up against the headboard. “Alright, lemme hear it.”

“A little birdie told me—“

“You mean Zayn?”

“—that Louis hasn’t been himself lately. He’s been acting all sorts of weird since you left him.” Perrie shoots him a wide grin, toeing off her Louboutins.

“I never _really_ left him,” Harry argues.

“Yes, you did. We are not getting into this again,” the blonde girl rolls her eyes. “Stop interrupting me, or I’ll be here all night and—“

“Heavens, no!”

“Harry!” Perrie pouts dramatically, slapping her friend’s arm. “As I was saying, basically, Louis thinks you’re some kind of blood-sucking demon, like a sorcerer. Okay, fine, maybe I’m exaggerating some, but that’s what Zayn told me.”

“Wait,” he frowns. “Why are you—why does Zayn know about this? Are you telling him things?”

“Eh,” Perrie shrugs. “We tell each other…things.”

“Are you like—are you dating now, or?”

“No, not yet. We haven’t gotten that far. Still gotta take him home to meet my Momma and Jonnie before that happens. Anyway, stop interrupting me! Louis has just been sitting at home like a loser—much like you, actually—and Zayn says all he wants to do all day is sleep or watch Netflix. Hey, _a lot_ like you. Maybe you two are meant for each other.”

Harry rolls his eyes and ignores her digs. “Louis—? This is all because of me? Are you sure?”

“Yup.” Perrie scoots up on the bed until their shoulders touch. “Louis’ confused, he’s re-thinking shit. Zayn says he really, really likes you—Louis’ just too much of a wuss to admit to it.”

“Oh.” Harry’s frown gets deeper. He should’ve stayed that night! He should’ve stayed by his side and cooked breakfast in the morning, and then they could’ve talked. They could’ve talked everything through. It was wrong of Harry to just jump to conclusions that Louis was going to hurt him. But was it really wrong of him; Louis was adamant of it just being about sex and he even _warned_ Harry!

“You like him a lot, too, don’t deny it.” Perrie gives him an accusatory wag of her finger. “You’re both like children, dancing around each other. If you were in third grade, he’d be pulling on your pigtails.”

“Does it even matter if I like him?”

“Of course it matters,” she lays her head on his broad shoulder. “You’re that boy for Louis.”

“What boy?”

“ _That_ boy! The one who can tame the beast. You’re like Belle and Louis is the Beast. Though, in my opinion, you look a bit more like Snow White, don’t you think?”

“Focus, Perrie!” Harry cries, jumping away from her. He moves to sit in front of her, cross-legged, and sighs. “I don’t—I’m not trying to tame any beast.”

Perrie shrugs, bright pink mouth pursed in thought. “Harry, I don’t think it matters if you’re trying or not. It’s already kinda done, dude. He wants you, he’s just scared. Men are cowards,” she rolls her eyes.

Harry picks at the light blue color on his nails. “It’s not my job to change him,” he admits quietly.

“It’s too late for that. I mean, the man hasn’t even been clubbing since you left him!”

“It’s only been _three days_!” Harry yells back in disbelief. “Normal people don’t go clubbing that often.”

“You do remember who we’re talking about, right?” Perrie raises a thick brow. She continues, “He hasn’t drank or smoked anything since then. Zayn told me Liam took him to some really fancy gay strip club or something, and Louis left early claiming he thought he was having Ebola symptoms.”

“Ebola? Really,” Harry deadpans. Leave it to Louis to be incredibly dramatic. He heaves backwards, feet resting on his friend’s lap. “This is all so crazy.”

Perrie glances over at the carnations on his desk. “Men like Louis Tomlinson don’t send you shitloads of flowers for no reason. How many bunches has he sent you? They obviously mean something.”

“I already gave him what he wanted,” Harry mumbles.

“Yet he still sends you flowers.”

“He thinks I’m twenty-one,” Harry fights.

“Ugh, who cares?” Perrie rolls her eyes. “I swear, you just keep making all these shitty excuses.”

“The law cares! I’m basically a child.” Harry widens his eyes for a more innocent look. “Have you forgotten what my mother does for a living?”

“Eighteen is more than legal, H. You’re a fucking adult! Besides, Louis hasn’t caught on yet, so it hardly matters.”

The room falls silent, but Harry can hear his mind screaming. He wants Louis so bad, but it’s so wrong. So, so bad and so, so wrong. “No,” he breathes out. “Perrie, I—I can’t. I have school and Barnes and Noble is hiring and—“

“Why can’t you have all that _and_ Louis?” asks Perrie, looking at him with her huge, blue eyes. God, she knows he’s just bullshitting it now.

“He could be a distraction?”

Perrie laughs loudly at that, her booming filling up the tense, small space. “Babe, look at you! It’s eleven and you’re already in bed. Your books are still tucked away in your backpack; did you even get them out at all today? He’s _already_ a distraction, Harry.”

“Gah,” Harry groans, grabbing a pillow and throwing it over his face. “Why do I like him so much,” he mumbles. He doesn’t know if Perrie understands what he’s saying underneath the fabric, and he doesn’t care.

“You two are perfect for each other!”

Harry throws the pillow to the floor, lifting his head up to glare at her. “How do you know that? Are you and—don’t you and Zayn have other things to do then talk about us?”

Perrie picks at the silk of her dress. “There wasn’t much else to talk about after I gave him my life story.”

“Jumping right in, aren’t you?” Harry lets his head fall back.

“Of course. He’s so considerate.” Perrie bites her lip. “He just sits and listens to me talk. He doesn’t interrupt—like some rude ones I know—and he nods in all the right places. I think he really likes me.”

“That’s shocking,” Harry says under his breath. “Isn’t he kinda like, well, Louis? He just seems like that type of guy.”

“Not at all,” Perrie says. “At least not with me. He doesn’t even look at any other girls when we’re together! He’s definitely different.”

Harry nods. He doesn’t really know Zayn, only goes on past experiences at _Fiction_ and what Louis’ told him. He seems nice, if not reserved. There is something about Zayn that Harry doesn’t like; he’s just not sure what it is. He’s only seen him once or twice, but he just—he can’t put a name on it.

 

The next day, Harry wakes up earlier than usual; too much on his mind for a decent sleep. He gets out of bed slowly and does everything he can not to even _look_ towards the door. He showers and gets dressed in comfy sweats and a light sweater. He’s standing in front of his dresser, trying to pick a scarf, before he gives up and pads over to the door.

He closes his eyes and holds his breath, hoping for nothing on the other side. He swings the door open and opens one eye, the breath he was holding swooshing out of him. Tulips—a giant heap of white, crisp Dutch tulips.

“Oh, Louis,” Harry sighs. He picks them up from the floor and heads back inside. He throws some of his textbooks onto his bed to make room for the vase besides the carnations. He grabs the tiny, white envelope mixed in with the flowers and flops down on his chair.

_I hope you understand. I hope it means the same to you as it does to me. –Louis_

What? Harry rereads the lines several times. Louis hopes _what_ means the same to Harry? He reaches for the laptop on the desk and heads straight to Google. _White tulips meaning_ , he types. In an instant he gets his answer: _Just as roses are associated with romantic love, tulips carry the overall meaning of perfect love._ _Forgiveness and worth, however, are exclusive to the white tulip._

Forgiveness? Is Louis asking for forgiveness? First he says that he’s sorry they can’t be together and now he’s asking Harry to forgive him?  He rereads the note and his heart quickens; maybe he has it all wrong, maybe Louis wants Harry to forgive him, yes, but maybe he’s asking them to forgive each other. It’d make sense, considering how they both played each other during their nasty little game.

Harry hesitates, but picks up his phone anyway. He goes to contacts and smiles lightly at the goofy face saved under _Louis._ He dials and after a few seconds of nonstop ringing, hangs up. Hey, it _is_ only seven in the morning, so maybe he’s busy working out or at breakfast or something. It could be that, sure.

He calls again at eight, then at nine. He calls again during lunch and even texts him during his afternoon lectures, but that’s it. The last thing he wants to do is appear clingy and possibly scare Louis off. The man’s probably busy, being a multimillionaire and all that.

His last lecture rolls around and he walks around his peers, all buzzing about the weekend. He knows that Perrie has something or another with Zayn, but he’s more than happy to stay in his dorm with some Thai and _Friends_ reruns. He’s walking across campus, when he stops at the quad.

It’s not as chilly today as it’s been in the past few days, with the sun high above. He decides to sit on the quad and read. He uses his messenger bag as a pillow and cracks open _A Farewell to Arms_ by Ernest Hemingway, one of his favorite authors. The clouds catch his eyes, gray and booming.

He gets a good twenty minuets of reading, and then the shivers start. An uneasiness flows over his body, like that feeling you get when you know someone is looking at you. He tries to ignore it, but he keeps rereading the same paragraph with no avail. He puts the book down on his stomach and lifts his head up. There are students walking around, but no one is looking his way.

_Whatever_ , he thinks. Maybe he’s just being paranoid. He lies back down and picks up the book once again, focusing on the same damn paragraph. He feels it right away, the tingles that shoot up and down his nerves. He’s only felt this way a few times before, like when—like when he was with _Louis_.

He shoots back up and looks around the campus with mad eyes. He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding when he finally sees him. Louis is sitting yards away, a vintage, light blue denim jacket over his shoulders, his usual black jeans tight on his legs. His hair is flat and in a soft fringe without any product, just like Harry likes it best, and he looks like an angel sent directly from the pits of Hell.

When their eyes lock, Harry shudders visibly, those tingles tickling his spine. He doesn’t know what to do: Should he stay on the grass and continue reading or should he pack up his things and go to him?

He doesn’t have to choose in the end, as Louis stands and calmly makes his way over to Harry, looming above him like a dark cloud. Above them both are sinister clouds, closing in on the sun until it’s completely gone and Harry can smell it in the air; there’s a storm coming. There’s a small grin playing on Louis’ pink lips and a small bouquet of white tulips in one hand. They don’t speak, Harry still on the ground and Louis standing above him, for a few seconds.

Finally, Harry throws his bag over a shoulder and stands, and this time he’s the one that’s hovering over Louis by inches. “Hi.”

“I brought these for you,” Louis smiles, handing over the tulips.

“Oh.” Harry takes them and puts his nose to the petals, inhaling the sweet scent. “Thank you. Um, what are you doing here?”

Louis raises both curved brows and presses his lips together. “I have something to tell you, I guess. I don’t—I normally never say this, but I have to today. To, you know, make things right between us.”

_Make things right?_

“Okay…?”

“I’m—,” Louis closes his eyes and grimaces, like the words he’s about speak physically pain him. “I’m sorry. I’m _sorry_.”

Harry bites back a smile. Flowers and now an actual spoken apology—how interesting. “Sorry for?”

Louis’ blue eyes glance away. “Sorry for treating you like every other man I’ve ever met.”

“Are you saying I’m not like every other man you’ve ever met?” Harry asks with confusion.

“Yes, well, I—,” his eyes dart around and leans closer. “Is there somewhere we can talk? I rather do this in privacy.”

_Do what?!_

Harry nods and looks up at the darkening sky. “I was going to suggest a walk, but it looks like it’s about to pour any second now. We could—we could go back to my room? If you want to, I mean. Or the library, they have comfortable chairs and a fireplace,” he rambles, blushing.

Louis makes a face but nods, “Your room, then. Privacy, and all.”

“Soooo,” Harry draws out as they began to walk towards his dorm. “How’ve you been, Tomlinson?”

“I’ve been okay,” Louis chuckles. “How about you, Styles?”

“Good, good,” Harry nods. The rest of the walk is silent and awkward, like strangers. Hell, Harry’s certain he would have more to talk about with complete strangers. His grip on the flowers is so tight, he's afraid he’ll snap the stems in half.

Once inside his hallway, he rushes in, balancing the flowers and his messenger bag and the keys. He’s quick to enter, just to avoid being so close to Louis—he thought he was going to pass out from the tension in the elevator ride, _God—_ putting his things down before settling the flowers on the windowsill, where they’re bright against the gloomy backdrop.

“You can sit on the bed, if you’d like.”

Louis nods and narrows his eyes, gaze darting around the room critically. He grimaces, slowly stepping towards the bed. “You actually live here?”

“Uh,” Harry sits down on the chair, “yeah? What were you expecting?”

“Something proper, at least. It’s so—it’s so _small_. How do you stand this?” Louis asks, walking from one end of the room to the other, expecting everything as he goes.

“It’s a college dorm,” Harry deadpans. “It’s not a damn Ritz.”

Louis shrugs.“I just thought you’d be able to move up some by your junior year… You don’t like to clean?”

“I don’t like to—no, yes, I like cleaning. Why?” Harry looks around his own room from Louis’ point of view. It’s damn clean. There’s a reason why he paid a bit more to have a private suite instead of a normal roommate dorm. “Did you just come all the way over here to talk shit about my room?”

“No, of course not,” Louis says, turning away from the dresser. All of Harry’s makeup is out in plain view, from his small amount of lipsticks to the nail polish, but he can’t find it in himself to feel self-conscious of it, not with Louis who went out of his way to buy him what Harry now considers to be one of his favorites in his polish collection.

“I see you liked the flowers,” the older man nods towards the vases filled with carnations and tulips.

“Yes, thank you, they’re beautiful.”

“I’m glad you liked them,” he replies simply.

“Louis…,” Harry frowns. He can’t take his eyes off the breathtaking man, but the suspense is killing him. “Why are you here?”

“I—,” Louis looks down at his hands. “I’m not exactly sure. I guess I just want to know why.”

“Why wha—“

“Why you left the other night.” Louis clears his throat and looks up at Harry, moving strands of brown from his face. “Why did you leave me that night, Harry?”

“I had to,” he answers honestly.

Louis’ brows furrow. “You had to? What does that mean? Why?”

“I didn’t want to be,” Harry picks the blue from his thumb, “where I wasn’t wanted.”

Louis looks shocked. “What? Look, Harry, I’m going to be honest with you, okay? I have no fucking clue what the hell is going on with me right now, but—but believe me when I say I miss you. Because I do, I miss you.”

Harry’s heart soars and plummets all at once. “You miss the sex, maybe. Not me, you don’t miss me,” he corrects. It sounds sad to his own ears.

“No, no, _no_ ,” Louis groans, letting his head fall into his hands. He stays like that for a few moments before looking back up, his eyes red and tired. “You know what I did last night? I jerked off. I fucking jerked off like, like I was thirteen again—just me and my hand, reunited again.”

Harry stifles his laughter at Louis’ indignation, crossing his arms over his chest. “Why? You could’ve just called one of your boy toys.”

“I know, and I almost did, but,” Louis shakes his head in frustration. “I felt like, like I was cheating on you or something. Fucking ridiculous, isn’t it?”

Harry gasps quietly, “But we’re not—“

“I know! That kills me,” Louis looks scandalized. “You messed me the fuck up, now I’m like, damaged goods. I don’t know what to do.”

Harry stands from the desk chair and makes his way over to the bed. He sits down next to Louis with a fair, reasonable amount of space between them. “Louis, you have no idea what’s going on in _my_ head. You confuse me so much, with the—“

“Stop! Harry, stop,” the man pleads, jerking away from his touch. He starts pacing the length of the room again, white-knuckled fists at his side. “My life—I have certain ways of doing things and you—you could never fit in it. You just came out of nowhere and now everything is fucked up.”

“Fuck you!” Harry stands, anger running alongside his blood. “ _I_ fucked things up for you? You were the one playing games! What about the flowers? The dates, the dinners? You did all that just to fuck me and now—“

“Oh please,” Louis hisses. “Like you weren’t leading me on?”

Harry laughs dryly. “Louis. You know me; you know the type of person I am. Men like me don’t lead other men on. You’re the one who always needs to be in control, and no matter what, until our very last day on Earth, you will _always_ be in control. I was just trying to—to bring you down a few pegs, that’s all.”

“Harry, you just…,” Louis makes an aggravated noise and turns his back to the younger boy. “You frustrate me so much,” he admits more quietly. “Why can’t I stay away from you?”

“’Cause I gave you the best fuck of your life?” Harry asks, sarcasm dripping from his every word.

“No—well, yes, but that’s not what I mean.”

“That’s not my problem,” Harry says somberly. “You can’t give me what I want—we both know this—so why are you still here, Louis?”

Louis twists around rapidly. “What do you want? Harry, was is it? Just ask me.”

“I—,” Harry stammers. “I don’t know. Things have changed, I don’t know anymore.”

“Changed?”  Louis’ eyebrows wrinkle. “How?”

Harry breathes in deeply and walks towards the man until Louis’ back hits the bathroom door. He has nowhere to run now. “Are you afraid?” he questions lowly. “Are you scared of me, Louis? Do I frighten you?”

“No,” Louis narrows his eyes in defiance. “I’m not afraid of anything.”

“Then why are you here?” Harry repeats. “We had sex, you got what you wanted, didn’t you? Now leave me alone.”

“I can’t do that.”

Harry feels his blood start to simmer. “Why?” He pushes him harder against the door. “Leave me alone, Louis Tomlinson. You already fucked me. Just let me _go_.”

“Fine,” Louis bites. “I’ll walk out that fucking door and then what? Then what are you going to do?”

“I’m—I’m going to live my life. Without you.”

“What?” Louis has fire in his eyes. “With some other guy?”

Harry nods. “So what if I do?” he questions.

“I don’t like that,” Louis eyes open and close, his dark lashes flutter against his cheekbones. “That’s just—that’s _wrong_. I can’t see you with some asshole, it’s not right.”

“I can do as I please,” Harry reminds him.

“No,” Louis disagrees. “No, I won’t let you.”

Harry pulls back at that. “You won’t _let_ me? What the fuck? I thought I left my father back in Boston.”

“Thank God I’m not your father,” Louis rolls his eyes. “I _won’t_ let you be with some pink Polo, Hollister flip-flops, pastel shorts-wearing dick who won’t even remember the color of your eyes after you fuck at some frat party.”

_The color of your eyes?_

“I’ll see whoever I want,” Harry exclaims, his voice raising. “You don’t control me.”

Louis’ chest is puffed angrily, heaving up and down as he inhales erratically. His legs are planted wide and his normally warm eyes are steel. “I can’t explain,” he seethes. “I can’t stand the simple _thought_ of you with another man. I would kill anyone who would dare lay a finger on you! They can’t have you, Harry.”

“What are you going to do about it?” Harry whispers, truly intrigued. They’re having a serious moment and that’s what makes it so wrong, but fuck him if he doesn’t acknowledge how incredibly attractive Louis looks with his skin all flushed and his stance possessive and his lips turned into a scowl. Damn. “You don’t want to see me with anyone else, then what are you going to do?”

Louis tightens his lips. “I don’t—“

“Don’t say you don’t know!” Harry insists. “I frighten you! I make you quake in your boots. You’re _terrified_ , aren’t you? You’re so scared of what could happen.”

“Do you blame me?” Louis belts. His breathing gets heavy again. “I can’t do this Harry; I can’t give you the life you need. I-I’ve never felt this way before.”

“I’m not like the other boys you’ve had,” Harry repeats in a flat voice.

“I don’t have—feelings like this. I can’t be with you.”

“You keep saying that,” Harry laughs humorlessly. “Is that what you want, Louis? To be with me?”

“Is that what _you_ want, Harry?” Louis looks back at him with so much passion; such a force that he feels it could knock him backwards.

“Sometimes I—I want to just like, sit and kind of just admire what you’re like. I just want to be with you. I want to be your boy,” Harry admits, looking at Louis with nothing but his soul. He’s baring it, loud and proud and completely vulnerable. “We can be fully clothed, like this, like right now, or we can be as naked as the day we were born. I don’t care, Louis, I don’t care—I just want you.”

“You’re the only thing on my mind,” Louis says. “God,” he groans and lets out a small laugh. “I feel like I’m on fire whenever I’m with you, just a forest fire that can’t be put out. That’s incredibly poetic, isn’t it?”

Harry smiles then, too, because it is poetic and it’s perfect and oh, so true. He knows what Louis means. He knows that Louis doesn’t have to be embarrassed by it or ashamed, or even explain it. He knows. He pulls Louis to the bed and doesn’t let go of his hand.

“I can’t stay away from you,” Louis continues. “I refuse to now, anyway, but I don’t know how to do this. I’ve never—never before.”

“Why are you nervous around me? I’m not going to hurt you, you’ve got to know that,” Harry mutters into the soft denim covering Louis’ shoulder.

“I’ve just never been that guy, Harry. I’ve never cared and now I do and I—I don’t know how to feel.”

“Weak?”

“Yeah,” Louis nods in agreement. He rubs his eyes and curses. “Weak.”

Harry wishes he could say he understands, but he’d be lying. He doesn’t understand, has never had to hide his feelings for anyone. “So you like me, right, we can agree on that? But that—liking me—it makes you feel weak?”

 “Yeah,” Louis nods again. “It’s strange? Odd. I’ve never met anyone like you.”

“You’ve never felt this way before?” Harry runs his fingers through the long strands, massaging at the scalp. Louis doesn’t push him away as he inches closer and he takes that as a small victory.

“No.” He doesn’t lift his head up to meet his eyes.

“You’ve never been attracted to someone’s personality—to their quirks or to their humor or to their funny way of eating spaghetti? Never on a different level, something not sexual?”

“No.”

“You’ve never just spent time with a man? Someone like me, perhaps?” Harry presses another kiss to his shoulder, inching up to press lightly below his ear.

“No,” Louis breathes out, completely motionless.

“You’ve never _wanted_ to spend time with a man?”

“No.”

Harry hums, kissing the same hollow underneath his ear. “We might have a problem. I can’t teach you how to be a boyfriend, Lou.”

Louis finally turns, their lips ghosting by one another. “Is that what I am?”

“If I say so,” Harry beams, biting his lip white.

“I guess,” Louis reaches up and pulls his bottom lip from the grip, “that I am at your mercy.” He kisses Harry’s lips so sweetly, so softly and with so much gentleness that he almost can’t feel it.

“Just please,” Harry begs, “no more games. Don’t play games with me, please, I can’t take that anymore.”

“Just don’t expect me to change,” Louis offers. “I won’t, you know that. I can’t.”

“I’m not asking that of you, Lou.”

Louis pulls back slightly, looking into Harry’s eyes with a gleam of what—terror? He turns to look straight ahead, swallowing hard. “Harry… Harry, there are some things in my life, certain, peculiar things, that I can’t tell you about.”

Harry’s green eyes widen. “Oh? What does that mean?”

“Just that—my life, it’s—abnormal.”

“Abnormal?”

“If you are with me,” Louis pauses, thinking. “If you’re with me, then you might see some things that maybe you won’t understand, or hell, you might meet some people that will rub you the wrong way. I need you to trust me, Harry—“

“Louis, I—“

“I need you to trust me when I say I won’t ever let anything happen to you.”

Harry frowns, small indentation forming between his eyebrows. “Louis? What are you talking about?” The determination is Louis’ raspy voice gives him shivers. Of course he trusts him, he trusted him even before he ever should have, even back on that stupid, enormous boat where they had their first date and Louis was Leonardo Dicaprio.

“Just trust me,” Louis pleads softly.

“I do,” Harry nods frantically, curls bouncing in his eyes. “I do, of course.”

Louis smiles, but it’s rather sad, a bit disappointed. “You shouldn’t. I’m not a good person.”

 “You’ve said that before,” Harry remembers. He pushes Louis back on the bed gently, moving to climb on top of him, straddling his thighs. “Why do you keep saying that? You’re _not_ a bad person.”

Louis looks up at him with the same big, blue eyes at first caught Harry’s attention. “I feel like I’ve known you forever and it makes me think that I can tell you anything. I want to, I really do, but I just need to trust you more.”

“Alright. I’m not asking for anything, y’know. I kinda just want to spend my time with you.” _All my time_ , Harry thinks.

“How do I—?” Louis looks to the side crestfallen. “I don’t have a single clue on how to be with you.”

Harry leans down to press a quick kiss to Louis’ lips. “Are you serious? You’ve really never been a boyfriend before? You’re twenty-four!”

Louis cringes. “God, I hate that word. You’re going to have to find something better to call me. And no, never been a boyfriend.”

“We’ll work on that later.” Harry rolls his eyes. “We have a lot of work to do.”

Louis shrugs the best that he can while lying down and with his boy—Harry on top of him. “Don’t expect me to be all soft, either. I’m not a softie. Well, maybe just with you, but that’s it,” he says sternly.

“Alright, alright,” Harry bites back a giggle, poking the firm chest beneath him with a finger. “I saw we do… a trial run.”

“A trial run?”

Harry nods. “I need to see how you do, Louis,” he mutters. “You have a lot of work to do and I don’t know how you’ll behave.”

Louis gasps dramatically. “ _What_? What about the boats and the nice dinners? I fucking brought you lunch and read to you while sitting on _grass_.” He tightens his hold on Harry’s waist.“I can be a nice, romantic, normal guy if you’d like. Monogamous, too.”

“I only get into relationships with one end-goal in mind, Tomlinson.” Harry wiggles his eyebrows. “Some relationships can last _years_ , how will I know you’ll stay tamed throughout all that time?”

Louis pretends to think it over, raising one eyebrow. “Hmm,” he grabs Harry’s face and brings him closer. “Can I kiss you whenever I want?”

“Yes,” the younger boy replies.

“Can I take you out whenever I want?”

“Yes.”

“Can I come over whenever I want?”

“Yes.”

“Then I don’t see what the problem is.” Louis grins up at him, and Harry leans down to close the small space between them, their lips meeting once again after three long days.

“What—?” Harry tries to catch his breath minutes later. “What made you change your mind? About seeing me, I mean.”

“Um,” Louis doesn’t meet his gaze. “Winnie the Pooh,” he mumbles lowly.

Harry guffaws, slapping a hand over his mouth. “Winnie the Pooh?” He asks, incredulous. “So I have a yellow, cuddly bear to thank for this?”

Louis tries to frown, a smile beating it away. “Don’t laugh!”

“What was the quote then? C’mon, tell me.”

Louis takes a deep breath and his eyes don’t stray from Harry’s. “ _How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard_.”

“Louis?” Harry fish-mouths.

“You didn’t say goodbye that night and when I woke up I was—I was devastated. It made everything really hard for me to comprehend. I tried to stop thinking about you and I couldn’t. I knew that I had two choices: either be with you, like this, right now, or say goodbye forever. I knew I wouldn’t be able to handle saying goodbye to you. I just, I dunno,” Louis shrugs, “I knew I had to get my shit together. ‘S why I’m here.”

“Thank you,” Harry whispers. His hands shake as they fold over his lover’s chest. Louis pulls him down again to meld their lips together, and it’s so perfect. He wants this moment to last lifetimes, wants to replay it when things aren’t going as great, just be reminded. He loves this man, he loves him and he doesn’t know why yet or how he fell in love or what it all means, but he loves him—that’s all that matters.

“Do you want to stay here?” Harry asks as he peeks out the curtain and sees the sky has turned black and there’s rain pattering against the window.

Louis looks around the room with wide eyes. “In here? But it’s so—it’s dirty,” he whispers harshly.

Harry laughs again and _oh_ , how wonderful it feels to have joy inside him once again. “It’s not dirty! I clean, I promise.”

Louis smiles and all Harry can think is _Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit_. “I want to stay, I mean, yes, but…”

“Have you ever slept with someone without sleeping with them first?”

“No,” Louis answers somewhat shyly. “I told you I’m new to this.”

Harry rests his head on Louis’ warm chest, pressing his lips against the first _is_ in _It Is What It Is_ and nods. “Don’t be afraid of me,” he whispers when Louis’ arms stay at his side. It takes a few minuets for the blue-eyed man to relax completely, to wrap his arms around Harry’s body and toe of his Vans.

He falls asleep like that, warm and cozy, Louis’ sweet, natural scent filling his air.

 


	13. Cocaine and Boyfriends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a really tough couple days. Hope you're all okay.
> 
> Disclaimer: This isn't mine! An adaption from the fic, There Will Be Blood by Johnnyboy7. Check it out of you'd like! I just made it very gay. One Direction isn't mine, either.

* * *

 

_"Anger is a killing thing: it kills the man who angers, for each rage leaves him less than he had been before - it takes something from him." - Louis L'amour_

 

There’s something about sleeping besides Harry, it does something to Louis that he can’t explain: he sleeps like a damn baby. He goes out like a light, like he’s just gulped down a handful of Ambien with a glass of Scotch, falling into pure, sweet darkness. Besides Harry, with his boy—he can finally say that—pressed up against his chest, his curls tickling his nose, he falls into a deep slumber, a place where worries and demands don’t exist. It leaves him rather vulnerable, too, something he’s not too fond of, but dammit if he hasn’t slept this good since he was thirteen and just had a rather powerful wank.

When his eyes finally flutter open, the first thing he feels is the rise and fall of a heavy, warm body against his chest and then he knows exactly where he is. The alarm clock next to their heads is flashing red and Louis curses silently. As much as he needed the rest and as much as he loves the feel of Harry pressed against him, warm and soft and _Harry_ , it probably wasn’t a good idea to spend the night. He struggles to move without waking the snoring boy besides him and doesn’t fail to notice the way both of his arms are wrapped securely around Harry’s slim waist, the boy practically lying on top of him. They look, well—they look like a proper couple, something from a movie he’s seen, or the _Relationship Goals_ pictures Lottie posts on her Twitter. They look like boyfriends enjoying a peaceful sleep—is that what Louis is now? A boyfriend?

Yesterday he sat on his couch with absolutely no intentions of ever seeing Harry Styles again and now look at him. It’s all Harry’s fault, of course, the boy is just irresistible, calling out to Louis, never leaving Louis’ mind; he was bound to crumble sooner or later. He can’t stay away, can’t even fathom the thought of leaving or someone else touching Harry like he’s meant to, but it all scares him, scares him in a way large men pointing guns to his head can’t. He doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing.

He’s never been through this before, like he tried to explain to Harry last night. He doesn’t know how to treat a boy right or how to make him happy. Sure, he acted confident last night, but now in the early morning with the sun making its way up high in the sky, he can’t lie to himself: How the hell is he suppose to stay monogamous? How is Harry actually making him think he can be a good—a good _boyfriend_?

As badly as that word makes him cringe, he knows that’s what he is now. He feels possessive over Harry, in such a way that a boyfriend would. He wants to open up to him, tell him things that have never left his own lips. He wants to spoil Harry with all the things the boy likes and but never needs, like roses and clothes and nail polishes and luxurious boat rides across the harbor. He wants to show him off to the world with a proud smile, gloat over his accomplishments and his quick wit and his god-awful jokes, because he can, because he’s his _boyfriend_ and that’s what they do.

Can Louis really do this, is the question of the hour. Can he be someone’s—Harry’s boyfriend? Can he possibly live up to Harry’s romantic standards?

While he looks down at Harry, whose mouth is plump and pink and incredibly kissable, he knows that trying to be a good boyfriend or whatever can’t hurt anyone, but there are people—people who would stop at nothing to get some sort of revenge on Louis, they _would_ hurt Harry if it was possible. It’s dangerous, Louis _is_ danger and Harry—Harry’s just love, sweet, sweet love. He could never live with himself if anything were to happen to Harry, but he knows that the ache for the boy will never go away, not with liquor or drugs or random sex.

Louis is a monster. He’s a killer, a horrible person for Harry to be with, but he can’t stay away. He trusts him, he trusts him enough to tell him what he’s all about, what he does for a living, what kind of chaos he was born into. _Maybe that’ll scare him away_ , Louis thinks, maybe knowing who the real Louis Tomlinson is, maybe seeing the blood on his hands… Harry would leave then, wouldn’t he?

Louis runs gentle fingers against Harry’s skin, caressing warm flesh, tracing swirls of black ink. Harry is soft and smooth against Louis, and the man has to remind himself that it’s real, that Harry is real, not a silly figment of his imagination. He’s perfect. Harry’s nothing like anyone Louis’ ever been with before, but he’s going into this blind, and he knows that, for some reason, he’d follow Harry into the dark.

Even as he watches the boy, his mind wanders, and suddenly he’s lost in a labyrinth of questions again. What kind of relationship will they have if Louis’ in the closet and his world is dangerous? He wants to wake up Harry and pound him with every question that crosses his mind, but the boy looks so comfortable in Louis’ arms, so pink-cheeked with the sheets up to his waist and Louis’ heat taking care of his bare chest.

He sighs and Harry curls closer to him, almost impossibly, gripping at his shirt with pale fingers. He looks down to see long eyelashes flutter, pink lips mumble something incoherent. Harry’s curly head is right underneath Louis’ chin, and his feet touch Harry’s shins. It’s innocent, the moment, something that Louis hasn’t ever experienced before. He—he likes it.

He feels like—he feels like a virgin in a sense. There had never been a man in Louis’ life that wasn’t Zayn or Liam that he just wanted to spend time with, there was never anyone he desperately wanted to get to know. He’s awkward, hesitant with his touches, cautious with his words. He doesn’t know what the rules are, where the borders stand. A complete rookie in every sense of the word; no doubt Harry will have to teach him, but… that doesn’t sound so bad, not at all.

He tries not to move, doesn’t want to disturb the sleeping beauty in his arms, but fuck—they’ve been sleeping for over _eight_ hours and he’s still in the same clothes as last night. He looks around the room and frowns; the place is a shit. How do college students live here? It’s neat and cramped, and Louis’ pretty damn sure Harry can touch the ceiling on his tiptoes.

It’s when his stomach growls loud enough to almost wake Harry that he knows it’s time to get up. He hasn’t eaten anything since brunch yesterday, and he bets the boy in his arms must be hungry, too. Louis looks down at their tangled limbs and frowns; how the hell is he going to get out of their self-made jungle without waking him up?

It takes him silent minutes and careful movements, but he finally is able to roll off the bed and onto the floor with a gentle thud. He grimaces and stands, dusting the dirt off his ass. He picks up the black Beretta from its hidden spot underneath the bed. It’s dangerous to carry a gun around when with Harry, but it’s even more lethal to not have one; he’ll just have to be extra careful not to tip his boy off.

He walks into the bathroom—a minuscule place smaller than the trunk of Lottie’s G-Wagon—and splashes cool water on his face. He looks different, he notices as he looks into the mirror, the bags are gone from underneath his eyes and his skin doesn’t look dull. He looks refreshed. He tries not to panic at the fact that this morning will be the first one in ten years that he doesn’t have his usual morning shower. Ick.

He has a hand on the door before he pauses. What does a normal boyfriend do in a situation like this? He turns back to Harry and smiles, standing over him. He leans and presses a kiss to his boyfriend’s soft, milky cheek. “I’ll be right back, Harry. Don’t move a muscle.”

He leaves the room and shuts the door behind him, when two split-seconds later the door across from Harry’s cracks open, a redhead girl peeking out with curious eyes. The girl eyes him up and down and opens the door wider. “Hi, I’m—“

Louis quirks an eyebrow and keeps walking. He hasn’t even brushed his teeth and scooping a bit of paste onto his finger and rubbing it across his teeth does _not_ count.

“Wait!” the girl calls from behind him. “Did you sleep over at Harry’s? I saw you come in and I was waiting for you to leave, but you never did!” The redhead looks at him suspicion. “Are you the French guy who sends Harry flowers? Are you _gay_?”

Louis rolls his eyes and continues down the hall without a word. _French, please_ , he thinks on his way down in the elevator. _What an insult_. He walks into the lobby then, going over to the short, blond boy sitting at the front desk. “Listen,” he starts, “I need you to—“

“Bruh! Sweet night, huh?” The boy wiggles his eyebrows.

“What—no!” Louis exclaims. What the hell is wrong with college students these days? So damn nosy.

The boy shrugs his shoulders innocently.“What? You didn’t come down last night, I only assumed—“

“Well fucking don’t,” Louis snaps.

“Oh, c’mon,” the boy chuckles. He leans a little closer and whispers. “Look, I’m not gay or nothin’, but even I can appreciate a little pert ass, you know? No homo, though.”

No hom— _what?_ He has to resist the strong urge to pull out his gun from behind his back and blow the idiot’s brains out. He reminds himself that stupid boy is only a civilian. Harry wouldn’t be too please, either, _probably_. “Look, you dumbass, I need you to let me in when I come back, I’ll only be gone a few minutes.”

“No can do, bro,” the boy sings. “Someone has to sign you in.”

“I don’t want to wake him up,” Louis says in exasperation. “Just let me up when I come back.”

The boy smiles smugly. “No can do, bro.”

Louis’ jaw clenches and he pulls out his wallet from his back pocket, gingerly picking out a Benjamin Franklin and slapping it on the desk. “There should be no problem when I come back.”

Outside, the air is cool, the birds chirping as he walks towards his favorite café a few blocks over. He knows the streets of Chicago better than he knows the back of his hand, yet an uneasy feeling sits in his stomach. He’s being followed. He slows down his pace, pulling his phone out. He stops at the corner of a street and pulls out his Ray-Bans before chancing a look behind him.

Jacen Wilds’ large frame stands out like a speck of dirt on a white canvas. There are more like him, all dressed down in blue jeans and leather jackets, spread across the streets, acting as nonchalant as possible. They always have a bubble of arrogance surrounding them, even in plain John clothes; they’re not hard to spot. _Fuck_. He breathes in deeply, exhales slowly, trying to keep his cool. Of course it’s not the first time he’s been trailed before, but he’s in no mood to speak to anyone this morning, especially not corrupted pigs. Why couldn’t he have been born into a normal family?

He sighs and keeps walking towards _Milk & Honey_, keeping his head down and his phone glued to his ear. His heart isn’t going fast, there is no cold sweat on his forhead, there is no _brivido_ going through his body. He’s in no danger; it’s just another life in the day of Louis fucking Tomlinson. He finally reaches _Milk & Honey_, his favorite locally-owned café, knowing that Wilds would be ballsy enough to follow him in. There’s a short line, but he gets in it anyways, checking his phone for unread messages and the news.

“Louis,” Wilds speaks behind him, voice gruff with hints of sleep. “Nice to see you out and about on such a beautiful day, what a pleasant surprise.”

Louis turns, annoyance etched on his face. Wilds is standing with a croissant, a younger male next to him, also big and dark, trying to look menacing. No man looks intimidating with a French breakfast in their hand.  “Wilds,” Louis greets. “Can I help you with something?”

“Nope,” Wilds bites into the pastry. He swallows slowly and smiles.  “Just takin’ a walk.”

“Following me, are you?”

Wilds laughs, a piece of egg stuck to the side of his mouth. “You caught us! Smart boy, aren’t you?”

Louis feels his patience draining quickly. “It’s not hard to spot you twats.”

Wilds shrugs, “We try to blend with the shadows.” They move up in the line. “So what are you doing out so early?”

“Just visiting a pal,” Louis replies causally.

“Oh? Anyone we know?”

“No,” Louis clips. He wants Harry to stay hidden for as long as possible, but it’s asking for a miracle when it comes to the cops. He just not ready to share his boy, not one bit; it’s dangerous, besides reckless, and Louis would kill if anything were to happen to Harry, be it a scratch or a bump.

“Hmm,” Wilds hums. “Oh, look at me, so damn rude.” He nudges the young man besides him, “This is my deputy Ryan Haeb.”

Louis nods and shakes the officer’s hand without a word. “Any particular reason as to why I’m being followed?” he asks once he turns back to Wilds.

“Oh, Louis, why would you think such a thing?” Wilds patronizes. “I saw you go into the dorms and we never saw you leave, and us being such good friends, of course I was worried. Just wanted to check up on you, you know how it is.”

Louis laughs dryly. “That’s the biggest load of bullshit I’ve ever heard. Why am I being followed?”

Wilds raises an unruly brow, “You know why, Tomlinson.”

“Have you found anything?”

“We will.”

“Oh,” Louis coos condescendingly. “Surely you don’t spend all your little police time on little ol’ me!”

“Let us worry about what we do with our time, alright? Who were you visiting?” Wilds asks.

Louis rolls his eyes, but keeps his mouth shut. They’re no way in hell getting any information on Harry out of him. He just got him, he’s not about to lose him.

“Another one of his conquests, of course,” Haeb speaks up.

“Who was she?” Wilds asks with determination in his dark eyes. “ A girl you picked up at a party? A waitress? A stripper?”

Louis fists clench at his sides, his temper rising. It’s barely nine in the morning and he already wants to reach for his gun, _again_. Just more than enough damning evidence that he’d only change for Harry and only Harry. He keeps quiet, or else he might open fire right in the middle of his favorite café, and he’d miss this place.

“Or maybe,” Wilds considers, moving closer to Louis. “It wasn’t a she, but rather a he? Who is _he_ , Tomlinson?”

His heart stops. His sexuality is a big secret, but he understands how Wilds and his cronies may have found out; he hasn’t been incredibly careful. No one except for his immediate family knows, so it’s chillingly to hear those words come out of a policeman’s dirty mouth. If the police know, who else might know? The Russians, the Nigerians, the Ugandans?

“You’re lucky,” Louis sneers when his heart picks back up, “that you have a nice group of police officers outside, because you’re sure as hell going to need them after I fucking kill you.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Of course,” he snarls. He moves up at the counter with no quails, smiling pleasantly at the cashier. He orders a large array of breakfast foods and several flavors of tea and juice, and from the corner of his eye he sees Wilds and his guys leave. Louis lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, breathing easily without Wilds in his face. He’s still in shock, but promises to keep Harry out of this, out of _all_ this.

Is this a bad decision? Being with Harry is dangerous for both of them, for Louis’ family, too, but he knows he can’t keep away, not now, not after getting a taste of what being with him is like. It makes him a selfish, disgusting man, he knows this, but. He can’t stop.

As he walks back to the dorm, with big paper bags filled with warm food, he sees Haeb from the mirrored window of a shop, but the young man wanders off minutes later. Louis knows the feds, knows how they work and how they think, and knows their schedules down to a T. They’ll be gone for less than a week before wandering back to their same, tired, pathetic routines.

He makes it back to Harry’s dorm with no problem, and the blond boy from earlier has his nose in a fat textbook. He looks up when he hears the door open but rolls his eyes, waving him in without a second thought. In the elevator, Louis’ phone rings, and he curses before shuffling the bags around, reaching into his pocket. Liam’s face fills the large screen, but he sends it to voicemail, not ready to deal with that part of his world yet.

In front of Harry’s door, he remembers he doesn’t have a key. There goes the surprise. He glues his ear to the wood, but there are no sounds coming from the other side. He knocks lightly and there’s shuffling before the door opens.

“Hi!” Louis smiles, holding up the brown bags. “I’ve brought breakfast! Figured you were hungry; how about some buttermilk pancakes? Or huevos rancherors?” He slides in past Harry and sits the food on the desk.

Harry lets out a breath. “I—I thought you had left.”

Louis turns and looks at him. Harry’s normally brilliant eyes are rimmed with red and the button of nose is, too. He has dry tear tracks on his cheeks. It all makes him feel like shit, complete shit. “Why did you think that?”

“I thought, well, maybe you were trying to like, get back at me?” Harry shrugs, the neck of his sweater slipping down to reveal creamy shoulders and dark, feathery wings. He laughs wetly and wipes his cheeks with the back of his hands. “It would’ve been a very _you_ thing to do.”

“You cried?” Louis can’t believe it. They’ve been boyfriends for less than nine hours and he had already made him cried.

“No,” he denies defensively. He sniffles, “Allergies. The leaves, the dust—allergies, that’s all.”

Louis nods softly, going to sit on the bed. “I’ve brought breakfast,” he says mutely. “I didn’t think I was gone for too long.” Harry joins him on the bed, but Louis doesn’t know what to say. Does he apologize? He’s never known how to be sympathetic when a person cries, but it’s _Harry_. It’s Harry and he’s upset, so what does he do? He made him  _cry_.

“I didn’t cry,” Harry repeats, reading the thoughts in his mind. The tall boy stretches his limbs and goes to sit against the pillows. “Lou, can I ask you something?”

“Of course,” he answers, standing to take the food out of the bags. If they don’t eat soon, the food will go cold, and cold pancakes and eggs are not his cup of tea. Oh, also, his tea would go cold, too.

“You asked me to trust you last night,” Harry says lowly, eyes staring out the window. He looks so soft, in a gigantic knitted sweater that hangs off his shoulders and long, white socks that reach his knees, covering the most that his mint green cotton shorts don’t reach, stopping at his thighs. “I just don’t—I don’t know how we’re going to do this?”

“Do what, exactly?”

“Us, what we are, this,” he points between them. “You don’t know how to be a boyfriend, I don’t know how to trust you to not go and fuck someone the second I’m gone. You’ve never been in a relationship—and I get that, I understand that this is new to you, that’s fine—and when you left this morning, I—I didn’t know what to do. I don’t know how to trust you—and that’s not fair to both of us, okay, and I know that I said that I would—trust you, I mean—but your past makes it hard for me to do that.”

Louis has to look away. He stares back down at the buttery surface of the pancakes, still caged in the plastic container, and feels the shame freely flow through him. No one has ever made him feel like such _shit_ before, no one. “I can try, fuck, I _am_ trying. I can’t change who I am—I don’t want to—but I’m trying to be what you need.”

“I know that,” Harry crawls on his knees until he reaches the end of the bed and they’re standing inches apart. “I don’t want you to change, I like you how you are, Lou. I don’t expect you to, but how I supposed to believe that you won’t grow tired of—of this, us, and just walk out? That you’re not with some other boy when I’m not around?”

Louis swallows painfully. “Can I tell you something?”

“Yes, of course, anything.”

“Since the first—since _our_ first time, I haven’t, you know, thought of another man since. I haven’t been able to get it up,” Louis admits, cheeks flaming.

Harry pauses. “Is that true?” Louis’ not sure, but is that a smile playing at his plump lips?

“I wouldn’t lie to you,” he replies, which is a lie in itself. It feels wrong, lying to him. He doesn’t like it.

“Can we just take this slow?” Harry hesitates, “I just need to know that you won’t hurt me, and I know that I’m sounding like a brat, but I don’t really have a chance, Louis. Please understand.”

Louis nods and pushes a plate of pancakes towards the curly haired boy. “Of course. Let’s just eat breakfast, yeah? Worry about it all later.”

“Thank you for this,” Harry smiles pleasantly, holding up a plastic cup of freshly squeezed OJ.

“I didn’t know what you liked,” Louis shrugs, looking over the half of dozen drink options on the small desk.

“This is perfect, love me some juice.” Harry nods, lips pursing around the straw. He pulls of and licks his lips and the sight is sinful.

“Can I kiss you?” Louis blurts. “I just—I really want to kiss you now.”

“You know you can,” Harry says rather shyly. “The benefits of being a boyfriend; no limits on kisses.”

He leans in to press their lips together and feels his body relax at the taste of sweet honey on his lips. This—this is all he wanted since he awoke; this is why he’s here. Harry is the biggest risk he’s ever going to take in his life, but he’s so, _so_ worth it, worth everything. He remembers what Harry said, about wanting to be with him whether they were naked or clothed, and it’s true, he understands it.

They eat breakfast and say little, but what little is said between them makes Louis laugh. Harry’s witty and dry, and he has a notebook filled with awful dad jokes and he laughs before he can even finish telling them, but he’s perfect and the way his eyes light up and his nose scrunches—that makes Louis smile. They spend the whole day in the small, twin bed, doing nothing but talking and laughing and occasionally eating more pancakes and bacon and drinking tea.

Louis gets to kiss him whenever he feels like it, and that may be the best thing ever. They don’t have to hide behind pretenses or schemes, they’re out in the open, in each other’s arms, and it feels _good_ to be able to do it. It feels good just to be together, and that’s something Louis has never said about another man before.

Harry sets boundaries, and for that Louis is thankful. The trial run is taken off the table. They discuss things like adults, like being exclusive and staying faithful, and when Harry says that if Louis sees other boys, then he can, too—well, Louis listens. It fun to see Harry squirm with jealousy while they talk, it starts a fire in the pit of Louis’ stomach that he can’t explain.

Around lunch time, his phone hums against the nightstand.

“Who is it now?” Harry asks from where he’s propped against his chest.

“It’s my brother,” Louis mumbles, sliding his thumb across the screen. He doesn’t want to leave the world he’s created with Harry. “Again.”

“They seem nice.”

“Zayn and Liam?”

“Yeah, Zayn and Liam,” Harry nods against his chest.

“They’re alright,” Louis smiles, “but don’t tell them I said that. They’d never forget it.”

Harry laughs, bells chiming. “Don’t worry, Lou, your secret is safe with me.”

 _Would it be?_ Louis looks around the small space, eyes catching the stack of notebooks on the edge of the desk, next to the tulips. “Do you have homework?”

“When don’t I?” Harry sighs. He bites into some granola, chewing thoughtfully. “I don’t think one Saturday away from the books is going to kill me, though.”

“What are you studying, again?”

Harry leans up from Louis’ chest and twists to see him, leaning against the wall. “Literature, I guess. Officially, anyway, ‘s not what I wanted anyway—I wanted music— but I might change it to something more practical, like business or law or I don’t know.”

Louis frowns, “Why would you want to do that? Practical? Just do what you love, and if you love music, then why not go for it?”

“Well, Louis, basically because I don’t have money to throw away, unlike _some_ people,” Harry grins at him. His dimples are deep as he climbs onto Louis’ lap, setting the cell phone back on the small table.

“I could pay for your schooling, you know,” Louis mentions casually in a serious tone.

Harry pulls back with shock on his face. “No. No, don’t even think of it. I don’t want— _need_ your money, Lou, stop.”

“Harry—“

“No, I don’t like it,” Harry refuses. “I don’t like all this money being spent on me, and it’s sweet Louis, it is—but with all the dinners and the flowers, just…”

“Fine,” Louis rolls his eyes, gripping Harry’s waist. They’ll get back to this talk eventually, he’ll make sure of it. He asks, “Do you have any plans for today?”

“Nope, just staying in, I think. Do you?”

Louis nods, checking the time on his phone. “I have to leave like, around five.”

“What for?”

“Business,” he answers simply.

Harry raises his brows at that. “Business? On a Saturday afternoon?”

 “Harry,” Louis breathes out. “Remember how I told you there are certain things I can’t talk about? This is one of them. Not yet, okay?” He doesn’t know how far this relationship will go or what will happen between them in the future, but he knows he wants Harry to know the truth at some point. Not yet.

“Sooo,” Harry bites his lip. “You’re not a real estate agent, then, are you?”

“Not exactly, no,” Louis says truthfully.

Harry nods, “I know. Just wanted to see if you would lie about it.”

Wait, what?

“Wait, what?”

Harry looks bashful, “I kinda Googled you? It was a long time ago; you had piqued my interest, of course. Anyway, it said you only sold two condos last year, so the money must’ve been coming from somewhere else.”

Louis smiles, “You Googled me?”

Harry shrugs and matches his smile, dimples forming. “Just make sure you’re not doing anything illegal.”

“Uh,” Louis licks his lips, “I’ll try.”

 

When lunch time rolls around, they do nothing. They lie on Harry’s bed with their hands intertwined and talk. As much as Louis enjoys it, it gives him small bouts of anxiety doing nothing severely productive. It’s nice, however, when Liam’s face pops up on Louis’ screen and Harry pulls him closer. That’s really nice.

“It feels like—I don’t know, like I’ve known you forever. We just met, but it’s like we haven’t, like we’ve been friends for years?”

“That’s eloquent, Harry.”

“Shut up,” Harry stammers. “Maybe you don’t get it.”

“No, I do,” Louis admits. “I just don’t know how that works.”

“It’s _serendipity_.”

“Serendipity?”

“Yeah,” Harry turns to him somewhat coy.  When his cheeks are rosy and his eyes are bright—Louis doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything more beautiful. “Finding something good without looking for it; the accidental discovery of something pleasant or valuable; the occurrence or development of—“

“I know what it means!” Louis huffs around a grin. He turns to Harry, who’s still staring at the ceiling almost wistfully, head resting on top of Louis’ arm. “I get it, yeah,” Louis says lowly, “that I wasn’t looking for you; I didn’t plan for you to happen or appear in my life, but I’m very happy you did.”

“Yeah,” Harry breathes out.

It’s quiet again, only the sound of students out in the hallways and the AC, until Harry speaks up again. “Don’t you ever get bored? With all that money? Don’t you ever wish for something—more?”

“I don’t know, like what?”

Harry shrugs. “I don’t think I could have so much money and just spend it all on myself. It’d feel wrong. You could donate to charities or you could build a school, something like that.”

“I’ve never thought about that. It’s not something I would do, honestly.”

“You could… How else are you going to spend all that money? You’ll die before you get through it all.”

“I could spend it on you, you know,” Louis laughs.

“No,” Harry says simply, turning around to narrow his eyes at him. Is that supposed to be a glare or something? It’s incredibly cute.

They stay quiet again, staring up at the ceiling, lost in their own respective thoughts. Someone bursts into laughter out in the hallway and Louis’ phone starts clattering against the wood of the nightstand. Louis groans. He’s getting really tired of Liam’s face.

“You need to go,” Harry states softly.

“I don’t want to,” Louis says in defiance.

Harry sits up, pulling his body away from the older man. “Business calls. Your brothers will be upset with you, Lou.”

“Fuck ‘em. I can make up an excuse, stay here with you—“

“Louis—“

“We haven’t even had sex again.”

Harry snaps his mouth shut. “Louis? As amazing as the first time was—trust, it was—we’re not. You know, having sex everyday? You have to let me work on my self-control, Louis Tomlinson.” Harry pauses, “Besides, you need to get tested.”

Louis stills his fingers on the small sliver of Harry’s skin peeking out from underneath his sweater. “…Tested?”

“Look, I fucked up; I should’ve asked you before we had sex. It’s not safe.”

“I used a condom!”

 “I know, but. You’ve been with a lot of people,” Harry frowns, “and I haven’t. I don’t want to risk anything.”

Louis gets it. “Sure, Harry, if that’s what you want.”

“Really?” Harry raises a skeptical brow. “Alright, that was easy.” He hops of the bed, sock-clad feet patting against the wood, and Louis follows, slipping into his Vans.

“Anything for you,” Louis says once he’s off the bed and cornering Harry against the door, lips against supple skin.

Harry picks his face up with two, gentle bear claws and kisses him on the mouth, no hesitation. It shocks Louis how good it all feels; not the kisses, that’s a given, but _being_ with someone. It doesn’t feel odd and awkward to simply spend the afternoon lying on a small bed next to someone, talking about their childhoods and their dreams, it doesn’t feel wrong to kiss someone passionately and not expect more. To Louis it feels like, well, like they’ve known each other forever.

If Harry wants him to get tested for every known STD, then fuck it, he will. If Harry wants to tie him up or blindfold him or fucking spank him, then hell yeah, he’ll try it out. If Harry wants to paint his nails or put glitter on his eyelids or have him wear silk panties, then, yes, Louis would let him. It frightens him how much of a hold the younger boy has over him, but at the same time, it feels as natural as breathing.

“Harry,” Louis whispers against his velvet red lips, “I have to go now.”

“Yeah, okay,” Harry nods. “When can we see each other again?”

Louis grins, “Tomorrow,” he answers eagerly.

“Okay, go,” Harry laughs. “Liam’s calling you again, I can feel him through your jeans.”

“He can wait.” Louis doesn’t let the arms besides Harry’s shoulders down, keeping him trapped against the door.

“He might knock this door down.”

“Let him,” Louis mumbles, lips moving against Harry’s.

It’s another half hour before Louis can leave. He just—he didn’t want to fucking leave. If it wasn’t for business, he’d more than happily stayed the night again. Liam calls again on his walk back home, but he doesn’t bother answering: he knows exactly why his older brother is calling.

Once inside his penthouse, he showers and continues on with his routine, wrapping a towel around his waist and flipping the bathroom lights on and off exactly three times. In his room, Liam calls again and Louis sighs, putting his brother out of his misery and answering.

“He—“

“ _Fucking finally! You fucking dick! We’ve been trying to reach you all damn day, Louis.”_

“I know,” Louis answers casually, walking to his closet. “My phone is filled with your calls and annoying texts.”

Liam grumbles. _“Where the hell have you been?_ ”

“Busy.”

 _“Busy? Doing what?_ ”

Louis pulls on some boxers, ignoring his brother’s questions. “Why have you been calling me all day? What do you need? I thought we were meeting at _The_   _Red Room_ at nine.”

_“That’s the plan, but you know Ma. She wanted to know where you were at. So where—“_

“Don’t lie,” Louis huffs. He pulls out a new, slim-fitting navy blue suit, hanging it over his arm. “ _You_ wanted to know where I was at, nosy pig.” He half-listens to Liam’s ramblings, something or another about Sophia, something about Zayn, something about something. He pulls out a simple white top and wonders if the weather will be good enough for a Burberry trench coat.

_“—but I think she might be upset about that? It’s not my fault, you know? I can’t help it? Anyway, don’t forget who we’re dealing with tonight. Bring your game.”_

“Please,” Louis scoffs, mildly offended. “I’m always on top when it comes to dealing with the Brits.”

 _“Don’t worry, Lou, Zayn and I know they frighten you, those big, bad Englishmen,”_ Liam jokes. “ _I’ve got Oliver; don’t worry your pretty, little head.”_

Louis groans at the mention of Oliver Scott. Oh, the English. There once was one Oliver Scott, Sr., who made a bucketful of money by importing illegal goods to London back in the sixties before he died, leaving his wealth and small dynasty to his son, Oliver Scott Jr.

There’s only around a hundred or less people working for Scott between Chicago and London,  but now that the present Oliver started exporting cocaine from Vietnam—well, the Scott’s are not popular nowadays, complete shit in Louis’ eyes. That doesn’t stop the Tomlinson’s from doing business with them, of course not. They’ve been trading for decades now.

Oliver Scott is older than Louis, by maybe ten or so years, and if they thought Liam had a drinking problem, it’s nothing compared to what Oliver has. The man is always drunk, words slurred and incoherent in a thick, English accent, and has no respect for boundaries or laws. Sure, respect for the law might make Louis a hypocrite, but he draws the line _somewhere_ , unlike the Scotts. There are three brothers in the Scott family, much like the Tomlinson’s, but that’s where the similarities stop.

Besides Oliver, there’s Elliot, the second in command. Louis has never heard Elliot Scott mutter a single word, but he’s seen him kill a man with his bare hands. A lot of people are terrified of Elliot Scott, something Louis doesn’t comprehend, even if the older man stands at six feet something and has dead, silver eyes. They both make an annoying, drunk pair.

The youngest of the brothers is Dylan, a spoiled, good-looking boy a year younger than Louis. Louis won’t deny they’ve had a few hookups in the past. Maybe it’s the closest thing he’s had to a normal relationship since he discovered his sexuality back when he was fourteen. They haven’t fucked for a few years now, and Louis can only pray the man won’t be at _The Red Room_ tonight.

Talking shit about the English rubs Louis the wrong way. Even though they’re all Italian, _Tomlinson_ is still an English surname by lineage. They had chosen to keep the name decades ago, and it upset a lot of people back in Sicily, but it’s too late for that now. They wouldn’t be where they are now if it wasn’t for the original Tomlinson.

“ _—what I am I supposed to do about it? Louis, do you think Sophia will—“_

Louis rolls his eyes at his brother, still yapping on the other line. He doesn’t think twice before ending the phone call; he doesn’t have time for Liam’s love woes. He’s dressed and ready to go an hour later, hair slicked back, suit pressed and neat, Brogue shoes shiny. He has to fight the urge to call or send Harry an iMessage, the boy's probably entertained with Ernest Hemingway by now. He has to remind himself that they’ll see each other tomorrow morning, bright and early.

He mindlessly plays on his iPad until an alarm goes off at eight-thirty and he sighs, mentally preparing himself for what’s to come. He’s in the elevator seconds later and the doors slide open for Zayn a level down.

His brother is dressed similar, in a black suit and a skinny tie. “Hey,” he greets, pressing the button for the garage. “Haven’t seen you in like, what, three days? Where’ve you been, man? You have a blackout or somethin’?”

Louis crosses his arms, “No, and I don’t understand why you just assume everything I do has to do with drugs.”

Zayn lifts his shoulders. “Easy there. Just going off past experiences, s’all. Where’ve you been then, if not in a drug coma?”

“Out.”

“Out?” Zayn hums, “Out like as in _out_ with Harry? Perrie says you two have been together a lot lately…”

“Perrie?” Louis raises curved brows. “What’s the deal with you two?”

Zayn’s face falls. “We’re talking ‘bout you right now, bro, don’t go changing the subject. What’s up with you and Froggy?”

“Don’t call him that,” Louis mutters. “We’ve just been hanging out.”

“Whatevs,” Zayn shrugs, leaning against the glass wall with a knowing smile. They stay silent on the way down, watching the dark city zoom by. The elevators ding open when they finally reach the ground parking lot and they both make their way over to Louis’ Bugatti, parked in it’s special, isolated cubicle.

“Can I drive?”

Louis nods, throwing the over. “If you get one scratch on him, I—“

“I know, I know,” Zayn waves him off, unlocking the doors. “You know,” he starts once the luxury car purrs to live, “Ma wants to meet him. The girls do, too, but you know how Ma is. I don’t know if I’ll want to be there.”

“I don’t know if I want to be there either,” Louis sighs. His fingers tap against his thigh, anxious for the day his mother and his—his _boyfriend_ finally meet.

“Ma met Perrie last night,” Zayn says tightly as he maneuvers around some cars on the street. “She loved her, of course. Afterwards, when Perrie left, she sat me down and told me how like, fucking proud of me she is. Talked about moving on and starting a future, talked about how Perrie is perfect for me. I just,” Zayn sighs, “Perrie wore bindi to dinner—I’m not Indian, and even if I was, it’s still disrespectful.”

“Yep,” Louis laughs, “Perfect girl for you.”

Zayn’s knuckles tighten around the steering wheel. “It was so—fucking _awkward_ with Liam and Sophia there, I just couldn’t. I couldn’t.”

“Sorry, Z,” Louis frowns, feeling his brother’s pain. He doesn’t know what will happen when Johannah and Harry meet; it scares him, just thinking about it. He knows he won’t be able to avoid it forever, no matter how much he wants to. He’s serious about Harry, is willingly to take any risk to be with him. If there’s some fallout between him and his mother—then, oh well, Harry’s worth a hundred bullets through his skin.

They race through the streets towards _The Red Room_ in silence; each lost in their own thoughts. _The Red Room_ , unlike _Fiction_ , isn’t fun or carefree. This club, also owned by Liam, is shady and nasty, a unisex strip club to say the least. It’s filthy with tits, ass, and cock everywhere you turn. It’s still classy, in a way, holding a decorum that other clubs in Chicago can’t reach.

 _The Red Room_ is one of Oliver Scott’s favorite places in Chicago, so normally that’s where the Scotts and the Tomlinson’s do business. Oliver is usually distracted with a pair of tits in his face and pussy on his lap, a drink in his hand, but as long as he’s happy everything tends to go well for Louis.

When they’re minutes from arriving at their destination, Louis pops the floorboard open from underneath his feet and searches through the small variety of guns hidden. He doesn’t know what kind of mood Oliver will be in, so he’s not taking any chances.

“What do you have in there?” Zayn steals a glance at the collection. He gapes, “When did you get _that_?”

“This?” He places the _Browning 1911-22 A1_ on his lap. “Ma gave it to me.”

“Of course she did, _bambino_ ,” he mocks. “I want one. I never get any cool shit,” he complains. Zayn takes it out of his hands, inspecting it with one hand.

“Give it back,” Louis snatches it back. “You know Ma has always been weary about you, all trigger happy.”

“Shut up, man,” Zayn glowers. “I’m not trigger happy—I just like to shoot things. I think I may need to go through Ma’s stuff, she always keeps the cool shit.”

“If you weren’t so trigger happy, you might get something nice for Christmas.”

“Not trigger happy! Just like to shoot _things_.”

“Exactly,” Louis smirks.

They pull up to their empty, destined parking spot in the fully packed parking lot of the club, besides Liam’s Lambo. Louis steps out of the sportscar, but Zayn only unbuckles himself and leans over to dig through the small collection of guns in the floor.

“Didn’t you bring your own?”

“Yeah,” Zayn mumbles, “but I want to try one of these out.” He chooses one quickly and locks the floorboard back up before jumping out of the car, locking the doors behind them, both of them heading into the club.

Louis nods at the bouncers guarding the back entrance and steps inside, heading directly towards the second floor, where Liam’s offices are located and where the meeting with the Scotts will take place.  Liam is already there, sitting behind a big, mahogany desk with creased, thick brows. His brothers don’t greet each other, Zayn going directly to the Jack Daniels in the cupboards, and Louis winces. Great, another one of _those_ days.

“Where the hell were you all day?” Liam grumbles.

“With Harry,” Zayn snorts.

“What?” Liam sounds surprised. “Is he your boyfriend now?”

“No,” Louis is quick to deny it.

Liam rolls his eyes, and Jesus, this family really likes to do that, Louis notices. “Don’t lie, you were like—he’s your _bae_.”

“Please don’t say that,” Zayn cringes.

“What?” Liam raises his hands innocently, “Just trying to keep up with the youth.”

“Can you both just shut up,” Louis sits himself down on a chair with a huff of annoyance.

“It’s okay to be normal of once, Lou,” Liam says quietly. “It’s okay to want something so bad, like this. Even if it's wrong. Just because no one agree with it, that doesn't make it wrong.”

Louis looks up and sees Liam’s gaze directed at someone else in the room. “I’m not like,” Louis stammers, gaining his brother’s attention again, “like, in love with him or anything.”

“Not yet,” Zayn adds in, going to sit next to him with a glass in his hands. “It’ll get harder every day and then suddenly you’ll be in love. You won’t see it coming, it’ll just hit you.”

The phone rings shrilly, shutting everyone and their cryptic messages up. Liam hits a button, “Yeah?”

“ _Sir, Oliver and company are here. Would you like me to send them up_?”

“Yes, thank you,” Liam replies, letting go of the button to fix his tie.

They wait for a minute before heavy footsteps crowd the hallway and the door bangs open. “Tomlinson’s!” Oliver bursts through the doorframe with open arms and a grin, the stench of alcohol reaching Louis on the chairs. “It’s been too long!”

“Oliver!” Liam greets him with a grin. Liam’s the only one who’s ever been able to stand the Brit. “Mate! How’ve you been?”

“Liam, _mate_! I’ve been wanting to see you for some time now,” Oliver pats him on the back. Elliot Scott follows behind him, with a large, black leather briefcase in his grip.

Everyone exchanges greetings, but Louis tries to keep away from the eldest Scott brother. He’s never liked the man, has never felt at ease with him—no one should, it’s business after all—not even when he was fucking his younger brother.

“Okay,” Liam clears his throat. “Why don’t we get down to it?”

“Right!” Oliver snaps his fingers once and Elliot appears from the shadows, setting it down on the glass table between them and opening it up with a click. The top pops open to reveal thirty packages of tightly wrapped cocaine stacked on top of each other.  “Beautiful and pure, from the lovely hills of Vietnam, with—“

Louis laughs loudly, “ _What?_ Can’t go back to Colombia , can you, _mate_?”

“This is perfect,” Zayn says to himself. He pulls out one of the packages and makes a cut with a pocket knife, letting some of the powder fall into his awaiting hands.

“Those damn Colombia ns!” Oliver complains, taking another swig of his gin and tonic. “This is the top shit. Nothing ever fucking touched this except little Asian kids and with their little Asian gloves.”

Louis grabs the opened package from Zayn and takes a gentle sniff. He dabs his finger in and places the dust on his tongue. The moment the substance touches his tongue, he doesn’t hesitate to pull the gun from behind him and point it dab-smack in the middle of Oliver Scott’s forehead. It all happens so quickly that it takes seconds for Liam and Zayn to react, cocaine falling onto the carpet, but soon enough they both have their guns out, pointed at James and Elliot, the latter who has two, steel, automatic weapons in his hands.

Oliver jumps, startled by the sudden commotion, reflexes slowed down by the alcohol in his system. “What the hell? Are you all mad?”

“Do you think this is some joke?” Louis snarls, ready to press the trigger. “What the hell is this shit?” He kicks at the table, knocking over the briefcase.

“It’s exactly what you ordered,” Oliver shrugs. “What’s the matter?”

Louis picks up a fallen package and tears it open with his hands, throwing it across the table to coat Oliver like baby powder. The British man blinks and licks his lips, tasting the product. “Barmy,” he says, “This shit is good!”

“Don’t fuck with me,” Louis threatens. He makes a small step towards Oliver, and Elliot follows it, moving towards him. He wants to shove his gun down the man’s throat, but Zayn pulls him back with a steady hand.

“I think,” Zayn picks up a bag and opens it up, dabbing a fingerprint of cocaine onto his tongue. “Yeah, this isn’t what we ordered, Oliver.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Oliver adjusts the cuffs of his shirt.

“Maybe you’re too fucked up right now to taste this, but it’s shit, Scott. What the hell is this cut with?”

“You know,” Oliver shrugs, reaching for his drink. “The usual stuff.”

“What’s the _usual stuff_?”

“Sugar and baking soda, that’s it.”

“How pure is it?” Louis points the gun to his head again. “Don’t you dare lie to me, Scott.

Oliver rubs his hands together, eyes shifting, and that’s all Louis needs to know the truth, know that the man doubts himself. “Alright, listen, Louis, mate, you really can’t get the pure shit anymore, alright? No one even makes that anymore!”

“Like hell they don’t!” Louis walks around the table, ignoring the flurry of movement behind him. There are guns drawn, lethal weapons, and a silly slip of the finger could make anyone lose their precious lives. “We asked for twenty-five kilos of pure, untouched cocaine. We paid for this, Oliver, and I want what we asked for. This is not it, so I’m going to ask you once. Where is it?”

Oliver widens his muddy eyes, “You know I can’t get that stuff for you, lad! I can’t go back to Colombia! If I step a foot back into that country, they’ll kill me. This is the best I can do with my restrictions.”

It takes him only two steps to reach Oliver Scott and pull him by the collar of his designer shirt, shoving him towards the doors. “Those who make promises they don’t keep,” Louis quotes, struggling, slamming the man against the closed door, “end up powerless and frustrated, and the same—the same fate awaits those who believe those promises.”

“What the hell are you saying?” Oliver mumbles against the surface of the door, face squished against the glass.

“That’s Paulo Coelho, you imbecile.” Louis is about to slam the man against the door when he feels the cool metal tip of a gun at the nape of his neck. One silly move…

It takes one second for Louis to swing around and whip Elliot with the back of his gun, the man crumbling to the floor after a small _crack_ echoes throughout the room. The blow to his head isn’t enough to knock him out, but it’s enough to leave him vulnerable and in a daze. Elliot Scott struggles, but manages to get up; lunging towards Louis, but Zayn stops him with a gun to the neck. Maybe it’s a good time to appreciate Zayn’s tendency to be trigger happy.

“Okay, okay,” Liam licks his lips and steps in between Louis and Oliver, pushing the younger boy backwards. “Let’s all calm down, _Louis_.”

“I can’t get you anything better,” Oliver admits, pushing away from the door and rubbing at his sore cheekbones.

“Then we want our money back, Scott,” Liam replies coolly.

“I—no,” Oliver stutters, shaking his head in defeat. “I can’t go back to the UK empty-handed, mate.”

Louis slams a palm against the wall, “Fuck that! Fuck you and your humiliation, Scott. You give us our damn money back.” He walks over to the fallen packages of cocaine and kicks them angrily, “This shit is _not_ worth eight mil.”

Liam frowns, shooting him a look. “I don’t want the police showing up here, not with cocaine all over the floor, okay? Oliver,” he pushes the older, drunk man out of the door, “come back with the money tomorrow, or you can be the one explaining to Johannah why she doesn’t have her order.”

Oliver mumbles but nods, walking quickly down the hall.

“Get out.” Louis points his gun at Elliot, who’s residing in standing firmly and glaring at him. The man doesn’t speak, which is no surprise, but he doesn’t move, either. “Get the _fuck out_.” Elliot Scott stands his ground and refuses to move a muscle, and it makes Louis’ blood boil, so he can’t help the way his arm moves on its’ own account and puts a bullet through the ceiling, above the motionless man.

The noise is deafening, but no one flinches. There’s a humming in Louis’ body that he’s known since he was sixteen—if this man doesn’t do as he’s told, his body will lie white, swimming with the fishes come tomorrow morning. It seems as though Elliot gets the jest, because he backs up towards the door slowly, eyes never leaving Louis, until he’s gone.

“What the _fuck_!” Liam looks up at his mauled ceiling furiously.

Zayn sighs, sinking into the desk’s executive, leather chair. “Lou, honestly. You can’t deal with shit like that.”

“He tried to scam us!” Louis rebuttals.

“Do you want to start a war? You can’t go fucking killing everyone who pisses you off.”

Louis sits up on the desk. “It’s not my fault. Everyone sucks at doing their damn job. It’s not that hard to get the right shit, is it? First Shaer and now Oliver? If they did their jobs right, maybe I wouldn’t have to kill them.” He sighs, dropping his head into his hands, feeling his bones complain with ache. The interaction between the Englishmen took less than thirty minutes, but he’ll be feeling it the rest of the night.

Zayn shrugs, “They’re scared of us, you know that. Just chill, dude.”

Louis scowls. “If they’re so damn scared of us, then why don’t they do what we say? It’s fucking pathetic.”

“Just calm down.” Zayn stands and gathers the unharmed packages of cocaine, dropping them into the briefcase before locking it up again. “We’ll use this for now, and if Oliver doesn’t get his shit together, then, well—we’ll let Ma deal with that.”

Louis nods. Hell hath no fury like getting on Johannah Tomlinson’s wrong side.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take care!


	14. War and Obligations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ice cold Johannah. 
> 
> Disclaimer: Not my story! I've rewritten it to fit Louis and Harry, but the plot isn't mine, and neither are the characters. Go check out the og if you want - There Will Be Blood by Johnnyboy7. Watch out for spoilers. One Direction isn't mine either. Thank god. What a mess. 
> 
> If you're rereading this as I post - I love you very much. You honestly don't have to do that, but it means a lot, so thank you.
> 
> If you're new to the story - welcome! You also mean very much. :)

* * *

 

_"Happiness can not thrive without the prison of obligation." - Johnathon Lockwood Huie_

 

“ _No_ ,” Harry mumbles into his sheets. “No, no, no.” It’s too early, much too early, fuck it, it’s Sunday. It’s _God’s day_ ; there should be no reasoning for such an awful awakening. None, none at all, but there is a reason, and the reason has long, blonde hair and bold, expressive eyebrows, and a fast, plump mouth, and Harry hates her. The reason for why his lazy Sunday morning is ruined is currently pounding his door down with strong, tiny fists, and he hates her, definitely hates her.

“Go away, Perrie!” Harry cowers underneath his pillow. “No, no, no.”

“Let me in! I’ve brought presents!”

“ _No._ ”  Harry peaks from underneath his pale yellow comforter and searches for his phone, blanching when he sees the time. It’s _only_ six in the damn morning. On God’s day, of all the days. It’s the _weekend_ , why does Perrie Edwards hate him so much? What has he done to deserve this sort of punishment? Does she not know him at all?

He falls back against the pillow and sighs. He spent all last night—after Louis left—stubbornly catching up with his subjects. He took of couple days off to spend time with Louis—his _boyfriend_ —and to clear things up between them, and he’s not regretting it, of course not—it was wonderful and beautiful and he got Louis out of it, so it was all worth it: Louis is _his_ now—but he can’t put off his studies any longer. Perrie waking him up so early is not helping anything.

Perrie yells from the other side of the door, “Harry Styles! You open this damn door right now or else!” She continues to bang on the wooden door, surely waking up all the other sleepy, possibly hungover, students. That’s sure to make him popular.

Harry sighs again loudly, and exaggerates to make sure his friend can hear the distress in his being, and pushes the covers off slowly. He groans as he stands, wobbling over to the door. He leans his head against the smooth surface. “Why, Perrie, why? Why must you do this to me?” he mutters.

“Because we have things to do!” Perrie replies, unsurprisingly. The girl has great, freakishly strong, hearing. “Church doesn’t wait for just anyone, you know.”

“Can’t we go tomo—wait, _what_?” What? Church? He yanks the door open and sways as Perrie pushes her way in, dressed simply in a form-fitting panda-print onesie and a messy bun, arms filled with shopping bags. “What do you mean by church?”

The girl drops the shopping bags on Harry’s still-warm, inviting, unmade bed, with a smile. “We’re going to church, dear. I’ve brought you some things to try on, must make your finest first impression today.” She looks through the large variety of bags with a calculated look on her thin face.

“What?” Harry slams the door close with one foot, racing over to the bed as his friend pulls out several articles of clothing. “What—? When did you—why—what is all—what the hell, Edwards?”

“Louis,” Perrie sings with a bright smile. She jumps on the bed, careful not to tip over any shopping bags, plopping comfortably against his pillows. “He let me borrow his black AmEx—yes, those truly do exist and I almost fainted, but let’s not talk about that now—and don’t worry, I went to all your favorites, including American Apparel. I was tempted to go into Urban Outfitters, but I know you don’t like that store anymore, so I didn’t.”

“Wait, I—,” Harry swallows down the sleep trying to engulf him. It’s only six in the morning and so much is _happening_ , can’t he go back to sleep? His bed misses him. He misses his bed. It’s a tragic love story being written as he speaks. “Louis—? Louis gave you his credit card—to go shopping for _me_?”

Perrie rolls her eyes, “That’s what I’ve been saying for the last ten minuets, Harry, keep up. Louis’ family is really big on religion and church and God, and all that fun stuff. You didn’t think you could be Louis Tomlinson’s hot, young boyfriend and skip out on church, did you?”

Harry fights the squeal as the word _boyfriend_ is said. It’s so nice to call each other that, but having someone outside their relationship confirm it? Like Lana Del Rey singing directly into his ears, pure bliss. “Boyfriend? Did, uh, did Louis call me that, then?”

“Yes,” Perrie smiles warmly. “Boyfriend, boyfriend, boyfriend. It looked rather painful, if I’m being honestly. He said your name about a dozen times on the phone before making this weird, gross gurgling noise, and then he called you his boyfie.”

“Aw,” Harry coos. That sounds so Louis. “Alright, so what’s all of this?” He examines the labels on each bag. Saint Laurent, Gucci, Burberry…He might pass out. He wants to take a peek inside each and every bag, but. It’s overwhelming, knowing that his boyfriend spent so much money on him, made Perrie buy him all these luxury items that he doesn’t need. He won’t deny that everything in the bags are more than beautiful, he knows they will be, Perrie has excellent taste, it’s just crazy. He doesn’t want Louis to get used to this, is all.

( _He_ doesn’t want to get used to this.)

“Gah!” Perrie moans, dropping back into the pillows. “Why are you so slow this morning? Church! Oh god, Harry, he made me go to Saint Laurent, and there were personal shoppers, and oh _God_ , and I got you the nicest, tan shearling coat—it’s gorgeous. And then I…”

Church. It’s not like Harry’s some big atheist or something, it’s the complete opposite of that. Sure, growing up there were times when he doubted his faith, but he’s done a lot of growing up in the last few years, and he thinks he’s in a good spot with God and all. He just doesn’t make church-going a habit. His family has never been into religion much, so he’s never made it a big priority in his life.

“Why am I going to church?”

“Zayn says the Tomlinson’s are fairly religious, that he hasn’t missed a day of mass since he was four. It’s so nice, though, don’t you think? How they’ve let Zayn keep his original culture and all of that? He says he only goes to church out of respect for his family, which is the _sweetest_ thing!”

“Yeah,” Harry nods distractedly, looking down at a maroon scarf in the Burberry bag. “That’s nice. Why do I have to go, though?”

Perrie stands and pushes him towards the bathroom door. “You need a shower. Listen, you can’t be a Tomlinson and not go to church—it doesn’t work that way. So why don’t you get your cute little ass into the shower and hurry up? We still need to figure out what to wear.”

“I took a shower last night,” Harry protests. “Besides, who said anything about _me_ being a Tomlinson? I’m just _dating_ one.”

“ _Harry Tomlinson_ ,” Perrie mumbles, searching through the piles of clothes. “Sounds fitting. Anyway, what should you wear? You need to look good, first impressions are very important, especially when meeting the family.”

“Are you going, too?”

“Yep. I went last week, too. It’s interesting, they’re really fun. Did you know church is only an hour?”

“They’re Catholic, aren’t they?” Harry asks, watching with wide eyes as Perrie takes the rest of the clothes out of their respective bags and lays them on the bed.

“Yeah,” Perrie nods, holding up a dark burgundy button down shirt with a pattern. Flowers and butterflies, that’s a good start. “Why?”

“No, no reason,” Harry shrugs. He hasn’t been to a Catholic mass in years. It ought to be interesting. He plops back down on the bed and sighs when his phone buzzes near his pillow. He knows exactly who’s texting him and why. Should he be angry that Louis just sprung this on him? While the clothes are a lovely gesture, he wasn’t expecting to meet Louis’ infamous family so soon.

_Good morning ! I’ll see you bright an early , just like I promised !!_

Pfft. This is _not_ what he thought Louis meant. He could have warned him!

 _You could have warned me!_ He writes back. _And the clothes? Really, Tomlinson. We’ll talk after church._

Louis replies quickly, _my bad ?_   _Mass starts at 7:30 I’ll see you in an hour_

He’s not mad that it’s so early, that doesn’t really bother Harry. Sure, he would’ve loved to sleep in until nine before going on a morning run, but what’s done is done. It’s not like he can _truly_ blame Perrie for it, as much as he would like that. He’s just, well—he’s kinda scared. He’s never had to meet anyone’s parents before, and it’s all a bit nerve-wrecking, especially since he’ll be doing it in a church, in _silence_.

Harry hops off the bed and joins Perrie at the foot of it. “He really asked you to buy all this for me?” He goes to the burgundy floral shirt he saw earlier, but his friend slaps his hands away.

“Yes!” Perrie beams. “I basically got you ready for winter, my friend. Got you new boots—Saint Laurent, you’ll _love_ them—and few coats—also Saint Laurent, because why not?—and a few shirts and even a new pair of black jeans. I went a little crazy,” the blonde girl admits with no shame. “It’s not every day Louis fucking Tomlinson gives you his credit card to personally shop for his boyfriend, who is your _best friend_.”

Harry swallows the piece of coal in his throat. “And just exactly how much did all of this cost you?”

“Not saying.”

“Perrie,” he starts to whine. “Why can’t you te—“

“Ah!” Perrie shrieks in excitement. “Here you go,” she hands him a simple pair of black skinnies. She picks up the dusty red button down with the black floral patterns and delicately throws it over his arm. “And how about these?” She thrusts a pair of YSL camel-colored suede boots at him.

He’s pushed into the bathroom, where he tiredly sits on toilet-top. He pulls the tag on the shirt gingerly, frowning when he sees the label _Gucci_. Just how much money did Louis spend on him? And why is all of this making him feel like he’s some sort of—of sugar baby?

“How does it look?” Perrie yells through the door.

“It looks good!” Harry hurries to rid himself of his sleeping clothes. He can’t help but smile when he feels the cool fabric of the shirt against his bare skin, opting to leave a few buttons undone. The jeans are a bit harder to squeeze into, but that’s the way he likes them, skintight. With a few shakes of his hair, his curls sit nice on his shoulder blades, long and shiny. He doesn’t look bad, if he says so himself.

Perrie claps when he sees him. “You look _great_.” She hurries over to him and buttons up a few buttons with a chaste, scolding look. “Jesus, Harry, you’re going to church with your boyfriend’s family; can’t be letting your tits hang out like that.”

Harry lets out a gust of air. “I think the church might burn to the ground.”

“Let’s pray it doesn’t,” Perrie laughs. “You look wonderful. My work here is done. I have to go back to my place to get dressed; magic doesn’t happen in less than an hour, y’know?” She presses a quick kiss to his cheek and flits out the door.

He goes back to the bathroom and does his usual morning routine, careful not to get any toothpaste on his new, _expensive_ clothing. He then goes to sit on his bed, playing on his phone for a bit, watching the clock tick. What should he expect? He’s read a lot about the Tomlinson’s during his creepy research, but what the media portrays and who a person actually is are two very different things.

His phone vibrates with another message from Louis, stating he’s running a bit late. Perfect, now they’ll be late. What kind of impression does that give his boyfriend’s family? He knows he’s freaking out about nothing, but he has a right to be nervous. It’s _Louis’_ family, after all.

Harry takes another look at the mirror before stuffing his wallet in his back pocket and locking the door behind him, clipping his keys to his belt loop. He walks through the halls quietly, careful not to make any noise—the last thing he needs is that redheaded girl poking out from behind her door and being nosy. He makes it downstairs with no problems, thankful for the heavy, yet slim, black coat Perrie got him as the trees shake with the strong winds.

He doesn’t have to wait long, hearing the purr of Louis’ black Bugatti Veyron before it’s even on his block. The sports car comes to a screeching halt in front of him and the wings of the car lift open before Louis is stepping out gracefully, in all his damn glory, and jogging towards Harry in front of the dorm building.

Louis’ contoured face is flushed pink and his hair is slicked back, just the way Harry loves it. (He never thought Dad hair would be such a turn on, but damn Louis Tomlinson can make it work.) He tugs on the hem of the dark gray polo underneath a cropped blazer and smiles wearily. “Sorry I’m late.”

“Oh,” Harry frowns. “I feel so underdressed. You’re wearing a _polo_.”

Louis matches his frown. “But I’m still wearing Vans,” he says, sticking a clean, black Van-clad foot out. His blue eyes roam Harry’s body. “You look—wow, you look gorgeous.”

“Are you sure? I can go back and wear something different. I can wear a blazer, too, I went through a long phase with those, I can style them nicely. And maybe wear some—“

Louis cuts off his rambling, “No, Harry, please. You look beautiful, I promise.” He smiles at the sudden color in his boyfriend’s cheeks. “Please, let’s just go,” he pleads, “we’re already late, Ma will kill us.”

“Wait,” Harry pauses in front of the car door. “ _Ma_? As in your mother? The woman who had you in her womb?”

“Yes,” Louis chuckles. “The very one. Can we please—“

“Is your whole family going to be there?”

Louis sighs and tucks a loose curl behind Harry’s ear. “No, not my _whole_ family, but my siblings will be there, and you’ll get to meet Liam’s—Liam’s girlfriend, and my mother and her husband will be there, too.”

“Oh shit,” Harry breathes out. It’s worse than he’d imagined. “Why didn’t you tell me!” He delivers a soft slap to Louis’ arm. “I could’ve prepared myself or done more research or—“

“Harry, trust me. Nothing you could’ve done would have helped you out, alright?” Louis caresses the younger boy’s warm cheek with a thumb. “I wouldn’t even be going if it wasn’t for them, trust me. We could be cuddling on your bed right now,” he frowns wistfully. “Or having sex.”

“I can’t—,” Harry shakes his head frantically, staring down at his pristine boots. “What if they don’t like me? Or what if I say something wrong? That’s your _family_ , Louis!”

“Harry,” Louis deadpans. “It’s not that big of a deal. They’re not that important, if I’m being completely honest. They’re annoying and nosy and rowdy, and when you meet them, you’ll see you never had anything to worry about.”

“They know about us, then?”

“About us?”

“Yeah, ‘bout me and you. You know…”

Louis looks down guiltily. “I haven’t really said much to anyone besides Lottie and Zayn. They _all_ know who you are, of course, we’re Italian, but they don’t know that you’re my… My— _you know_.”

Harry quirks an eyebrow, biting away his grin. “No, I don’t know, Louis. Why don’t you enlighten me?”

Louis rolls his eyes. “Fine. They don’t know you’re my boyfriend,” he whispers the last word.

Harry laughs then, wrapping his arms tightly around Louis’ slim waist. “You’re so cute.”

“Cute?” Louis pulls a face.

“Fine, funny. Handsomely rugged.”  

“Okay, I’ll take that. Now can we please,” Louis presses Harry against the car, “get going before we’re even more late?” He pulls away and lets the butterfly doors shoot straight up, holding onto Harry’s hand as the boy climbs in.

Harry watches as Louis circles around the front of the car, the hem of his polo sitting on the curve of his ass. How did he get so lucky? His boyfriend is the utmost beautiful person he’s ever seen. The car roars back to life when Louis starts it and he maneuvers around the campus before hitting the highway, all with their hands enlaced together over the console.

“So,” Harry starts, “why is it that I have to go to church?”

The older man both makes a sharp turn and shrugs. “It’s…,” he pauses, “it’s expected of us. So it’s more or less expected of you, too.”

“Of _me_?”

“You know I haven’t done relationships and all that shit before, but it’s always kind of been expected of us, my brothers, sisters and me. Italians are all about family,” Louis states, “and religion. When you’re a Tomlinson, you do Tomlinson things. It’s like you’re a part of everything that comes with the name.”

Harry bites his lip. “So like,” he marvels, “I’m a Tomlinson? I’m a part of your family, really?”

“Is that honestly all you got from my little speech?” Louis deadpans.

“Is it not true, then?” Harry twists around to face him. His older boyfriend only rolls his eyes. Harry sits back in his seat, utterly amused, with butterflies fluttering about in his belly. It’s the second time today someone has referred to him as a Tomlinson, and he’s definitely blowing it out of proportion, but—Harry and Tomlinson definitely fit. He likes the way it rings in his ears.

“Are you shitting me?” Harry asks in awe once they’re parked across the street, looking up at the great, gothic cathedral. The nerves that had settled with Louis’ sweet, simple touch and relaxing words are now back in full-force and they’re not going away anytime soon.

Louis laughs at his reaction, locking the doors with a loud beep behind them. They’re parked across the street, next to an obnoxious white Lamborghini. “Watch your language,” he jokes. “We’re already twenty minuets late, so we’ll only have to endure another forty. That’s not so bad, is it?”

“No,” Harry frowns, making tentative steps towards the cathedral. “I suppose not—“

“But we sit right up front, so let’s get going.”

Harry starts to walk faster, but then Louis is grabbing his hand tightly again and pulling him back against the car, pressing their chests together. Small, warm hands are gripping onto his hips, a thumb sneaking underneath the cool fabric of his shirt to caress at his skin. Harry doesn’t need any instructions, locking an arm around Louis’ waist and a hand locking on soft, feathery hair, pulling him as close as possible.

They lose track of time, kissing with fervor against Louis’ car, but Harry doesn’t mind, not one bit. He yelps into Louis’ mouth when nimble fingers press in between his butt cheeks, over the fabric of his jeans. “Louis!” he chastens. “God is watching you.”

“Sorry,” Louis says insincerely. He only lets his hands drop from Harry’s behind when the younger boy puts a hand in between them, creating space between their panting bodies. He presses another kiss to Harry’s lips before tugging on his hand and leading him across the street to the front entrance of the church. “Don’t let them frighten you,” Louis says.

Harry frowns, “Who?”

“Everyone,” Louis answers quietly, holding a thick, wooden door open. “I’ve got you.”

There’s hard, white marble underneath his feet and high, deep arches above his head. He’s overwhelmed by the all the gold and granite accents, that he almost misses it when Louis drops his hand, but the warmth vanishes quickly and Louis can only give him a sympathetic shrug and a hovering hand on his back. The small, stacked heels on his new boots click against the floor as they maneuver through pews and walk down long aisles.

They’re almost halfway to the front of the church, when he spies Perrie and her long, high ponytail sitting in the second pew, next to a long-bearded Zayn. Harry makes out Liam, who’s sat next to a long-haired brunette. Besides her are two teenage girls around the same age as him, one short and blonde, and the other tall with mousy brown hair. He can’t make out Louis’ parents, and he’s somewhat thankful. 

He’s breathing out, trying to ignore the immaculate thumping of his heart against his bruising ribcage, focusing solely on Perrie’s sheer blonde for comfort, when his big foot gets caught in the dark wood of a pew. Harry clenches his eyes shut, ready for the impact of hard marble against his body, but it never comes. Instead, there are two strong arms wrapped around his waist and when he opens an eye, Louis’ amused, slightly concerned, face is staring back down at him.

He feels hundreds of eyes on him and hears stifled laughter and gasps. Louis lets go of him once he’s on his feet, but Harry can only feel his face burning. The cathedral is silent, watching them as they continue their way to the front pew, Harry’s eyes glued to the floor. The father stopped preaching, but clears his throat and continues once they’re seated.

Harry slides onto a bench in front of Perrie and Zayn, next to a set of giggling twins. Louis sits next him, biting back his laughter, with a decent amount of space in between them. There’s a slim, brown-haired woman next to the twins, baring a heavy resemblance to Louis. Oh _God_ , Harry just made a fool of himself in front of five hundred or so Catholics and Johannah Tomlinson. Can this possibly get any worse?

“Nice job,” Perrie whispers into his ear when she leans over. “What did we say about first impressions?”

Harry’s cheeks burn and he keeps his gaze forward, refusing to rebuttal with his friend. Twenty or more minuets late _and_ tripping, what a life he leads. During the sermons, he keeps his eyes at the front of the cathedral, soaking in the beautiful workmanship and minuscule, gold details on the walls and ceiling. Louis sighs heavily every once in a while, checking his phone obnoxiously. Harry rolls his eyes at his boyfriend’s defiance, but then the older man is bouncing his knee up and then and muttering nonsense underneath his breath and pressing his lips tightly in annoyance.  

Harry frowns and chances a (hopefully) sly look behind him. Liam’s fingers are rapidly flying over his iPhone screen, thick, brown brows creased. Harry sends a quick smile at the woman besides the big Tomlinson brother, who shyly waves back. He remembers reading about one of Johannah Tomlinson’s assistants dating one of her sons.

Harry turns back and scoots closer to Louis, as discreetly as he can. “How do you do this every Sunday?”

Louis grins back, “I have no clue. I really have no idea how I’ve managed to survive,” he whispers. “I’ve never missed a single Sunday of Mass, never. 1,248 days of my life. I’ve been taught that God and religion are the biggest priorities in my life.”

“That’s not so bad,” Harry shrugs. “Good moral codes, and all that.”

“1,248 hours I have not paid attention to, ever.”

“Tsk, tsk.”

After a few announcements, the priest blesses everyone once again before sending them on their way. People stand from the benches and some even glance over at Louis and Harry before quickly making their way out of the doors. He doesn’t know what that’s about, but some people giggle at him, and _then_ he knows.

Harry stands and turns, a nervous smile steady on his face, and he’s met with lifted, sharp eyebrows and cold, blue eyes and—oh, Louis’ mother. Her hair is loose and cascading over her strong shoulders, on top of a black blazer with a matching pencil skirt. She looks so much like Louis, from the ever-changing blue hue in almond shaped eyes, to the small button of their noses, to sculpted cheekbones. There’s a tall, blond man next to her—the new husband?—with glasses perched on his nose and a purple sweater.

He opens his mouth to say something—he’s prepared; he thought of a million and one greetings on the car ride over here, he’s _prepared_ —but then Louis is grabbing him by the wrist and pulling him away, cutting through people, and bounding the down stairs two at a time. “Lou? Louis, what—? I was just about to meet your mom!”

“I _know_ ,” Louis groans, quickly glancing at both sides of the street before pulling them to the Bugatti. “That’s why I needed to get you out of there. You’ll meet them later, at dinner. There’s just some—some _things_ we should discuss first.” He unlocks the car and the doors swing upwards, hastily climbing in.

Harry runs a hand through his hair. “What’s happening?” He straightens in his seat, pulling on the seat belt once Louis starts the car, and looks over to the majestic cathedral. Standing on the sidewalk, are Louis’ family and Perrie. Harry’s blonde friend looks unimpressed, while Zayn looks annoyed, fingers tapping at his side. Liam looks confused and his girlfriend, the tall brunette, looks passive. Louis’ sisters are glued to the screen of their phones and his step-dad has a hand on the small of Johannah’s back, who looks outright enraged.

“Louis, your mom—“

“That’s why we need to leave now.” Louis presses down on the gas, going quickly around slower cars until they’re a safe distance from the church.

“Louis, don’t you think you should slow do—“

“Can’t you just— _stop talking_?! Please, just let me think,” Louis pleads in frustration, both hands gripping the leather of the steering wheel, knuckles going white.

“Fine,” Harry huffs, turning to face the window, “dick.” _Fine_. If Louis wants him to be quiet, then he will be quiet. No more words coming from out of his mouth for the rest of the day, not until he apologizes.

Skyscrapers and building zoom by in complete silence, and then they’re hitting the suburbs, roads lined with bare trees and three story homes. The houses disappear and then they’re surrounded by threes on both sides; orange, red, and yellow leaves fallen to the ground, creating a beautiful array. Louis turns until they’re on a gravel road and shuts the car off, the lack of a purr leaving them in complete silence.

Harry doesn’t wait, just lifts the door up and climbs out. He reaches up for the handle, sliding the door down until it slams shut. Sure, he’s acting like a child, but what the hell is up with Louis? He has no idea where they’re at, but they can’t be too far away from the city; surely he can make it back on foot.

“Harry?” Louis calls from behind him. “Where are you going? I need to talk to you!”

Harry keeps walking until he’s back on the main road. He hears the slam of a door and gravel crunching, louder until Louis right behind him. Maybe if he keeps going this way, he’ll find a bus that will—

“Harry!” Louis grabs his waist, twisting him around. “I need to talk to you. I can’t do that if you keep walking away—the wrong way, may I add.”

“What, Louis?” Harry asks, exasperated.

“I need to explain something to you, alright? Just—hear me out on this, please.”

Harry folds his hands behind his back stubbornly. “Go ahead, I’m listening.”

Louis narrows his eyes at him, gaze flitting all over his face, like he’s searching for something in particular. Harry doesn’t know if he finds it or not, but Louis just nods and steps back, turning to kick gently at the leaves. “I had to get you outta there. You can’t—I didn’t want you to meet her, I don’t think you’re ready.”

“Meet who?”

“My mother.”

Harry’s mouth falls open. “Your _mother_?” he repeats cautiously. “I don’t think I’m following you, Lou.”

“I’m so, _so_ fucked,” Louis groans. “We have this, this _ritual_ , for lack of a better term. Every Sunday, after mass, we go to the cemetery, to put flowers on my father’s and uncle’s tombs. Afterwards, we have dinner at the Tomlinson Estate. I can’t believe I’m skipping the grave—I haven’t done that since I was eighteen.”

Harry nods wordlessly. He kinda has no clue what Louis is going on about. “Okay? I’m sorry, I think? Are you going to be in trouble or something?”

“I should have—yesterday, I should have—why I didn’t— _fuck_!”  Louis paces back and forth, leaves crunching underneath his feet, biting away rapidly at his thumbnail.

Harry crosses the space between them with haste and pulls away Louis’ hand from his mouth. “ _Louis_. Babe, love, you need to calm down, okay? Breathe—can you breathe for me? Yeah, like that, just like that. Just breathe, you’ll get it out, don’t panic.”

“Harry…,” Louis rubs at his eyes with closed fist. “Harry, are you Italian?”

“Uh, what?”

“Are—you—Italian?”

His eyes widen. “Italian? No, I don’t think so. I highly doubt it. I’m English, actually, I believe. Why?”

“ _Why_ , he asks,” Louis mumbles. He closes his eyes and sighs. “As a Tomlinson, we have, well, we have rules.”

“Louis, really, I think every family has their own lingo, it’s not—“

“No, Harry, please,” Louis goes to him, pressing a hand over his lips. “Just listen. My mom, Johannah, Jay, whatever—she’s a wonderful mom. She’s caring and attentive and loving. But Mom, she’s not a very, well—she’s not a very good person. She’s dangerous. _I’m_ not a very good person. Liam, Zayn; they’re not good people, either. None of us are.”

Harry glances down at the fingers on his lips until he goes cross-eyed and back up at Louis’ worried, anxious expression. He’s never seen the man like this before, actually _frightened_ by something, or someone. He doesn’t like it. He wraps his hand around Louis’ wrist and tugs on it until he lets it drop from his lips, Harry quickly grabbing it, fingers slotting perfectly together.

“And I know you don’t believe that,” Louis continues with a slight chuckle, “but only because you’re the most beautiful, sincere, _pure_ person I have ever met in my life. I don’t believe you can think poorly of anyone. How do I tell you this without—Harry, when we get to the Estate, you’re going to meet one of those most dangerous women—if the not the most—in the world.”

Harry lifts his eyebrows at that. It’s not that he doesn’t believe Louis—his boyfriend is speaking so strongly, with so much passion in his blue eyes, that it’s kinda hard not to—but it’s just. It’s confusing. He doesn’t understand how the Tomlinson’s are bad people or how Johannah is dangerous, he doesn’t get it. “Dangerous? _Time_ magazine said she was the most influential woman of the year, not the most dangerous.”

“This isn’t a joke!” Louis rumbles. “I knew it! I knew I shouldn’t have let you into this life. Now you have to be in the same room as her, how will I ever forgive myself if—“

“Louis,” Harry deadpans. “I’m not a little kid. I’m a big boy; I think I can handle your evil mother. I mean, like,” he casts his eyes downwards, “it’s not like we’re getting married or anything.”

Louis freezes mid-step and it reminds Harry of the time he was joking around about meeting his mother. That seems so far away in the past. “H, look, how do I say this nicely? I don’t know how—my mother doesn’t like you. In fact, she might actually hate you.”

“Well,” Harry croaks lowly. “That wasn’t so hard to say after all, was it?” Harry was born and raised in Boston. And while it isn’t the smallest of towns, it definitely isn’t the biggest, and there were never a lot of out gay boys in his tiny private school. It’s safe to say he’s never had a real, true relationship growing up in Boston, opting for quick dates here and there in New York City on the weekends. He’s never had to officially ‘meet’ any parents, but nonetheless parents have _always_ loved him. He can’t wrap his head around what Louis is saying.

How can Johannah Tomlinson possibly hate him? She doesn’t even know him.

“She doesn’t even know me.”

“But she knows _me_.” Louis frowns and takes hold of his hand again. “Look, my mom knows I’m gay, as does my family. But that—being gay—is more than frowned up, it’s forbidden. Sort of. I could get in a lot of trouble if I come out. I have—I have obligations, to both my family and my—my work.”

Harry rips his hand away; he can’t listen to this anymore. What was the point of all of this? What was the point of leading him on, touching him, confessing to him? What was the point of all these nights spent together, hidden underneath the covers? What was the damn point of any of this, if all Louis can say is that he has fucking _obligations_ , that their love—or whatever—is forbidden?

“Men have always been good distractions, but you know, I’ve never had a…”

“A boyfriend,” Harry finishes mutely. “I think I want to go home now, please.” He crosses his arms over his chest, trying to keep upright, trying to keep everything inside. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if he spills on the ground in front of him, all of his feelings for Louis spilt for the older man to see. Louis has seen enough. He doesn’t deserve to see more of him.

“My mother knows you’re my equal,” Louis admits suddenly. “She doesn’t like the idea of you. If I come out, if we’re together—that could cause a-a war.”

“A _war_? Oh, come on, Louis. Can you settle down on the dramatics?”

Louis shakes his head. “It’s just that my mom thinks you could mess it all up, mess up my future. You don’t understand and that’s my fault. I’m sorry for that, Harry.”

“I don’t understand any of this. I keep asking all these questions, and you keep kicking them out of the field.”

“I know. It’s going to be like that for a long, long time, Harry. I hope you can wait for me.”

He’s stupid. He should make Louis drive him back to his dorm, and then he should open up a pint of Ben & Jerry’s, watch old episodes of Modern Family on Netflix, and fucking _forget_ about Louis Tomlinson. That’s what he should do. But he doesn’t. Instead, he sighs and walks forward, wrapping his arms around his small middle, and he promises to wait _as long as it takes_.

 “Why don’t we just go, okay? Let’s get back in the car and head towards the dinner. It won’t be that bad.”

“Harry,” Louis scoffs. “Have you ever been to an Italian dinner before? There’s bound to be more than fifty people there, all Italian and loud. _Plus_ my mother, who will interrogate you until your ears start to bleed.”

“Well, _you’ve_ never been to a Styles-Twist Christmas. Christmas dinner while listening to _99 Problems_ has happened.” Harry grins, taking Louis’ hand back in his.

Louis lifts unimpressed eyebrows. “Wow, look at you, Harold. Such a badass, aren’t you?” He starts leading them back to the car. “Look, it’s mostly all family. We’ll be there a few hours at the latest.”

“I really do want to meet your family, Louis,” Harry speaks softly, sincerely. “If they’re anything like you, I know I’ll love them.”

Louis eyes bug out. “You—what? Love them? Love—“

“No!” Harry bellows, “No, I meant like—platonic. You know, friendly. Family friendly, PG 13. Me and you, platonic.” At Louis’ disbelieving quirk of eyebrows, he backtracks. “Of course not _me and you_ , we’re not platonic, I mean, we had sex. That wasn’t family friendly—“

“Harry, shut up.” Louis laughs brightly. “Let’s just go before you give yourself an asthma attack.”

Harry nods and ducks his head, feeling the embarrassment showing on his cheeks, red and flushed. How could he have been so careless? They’ve not been dating a whole week yet! He knows Louis is scared of boyfriends and commitment and domesticity—everything that Harry _loves_ —and just carelessly throwing the L word out there might make him run. 

He still doesn’t understand why Louis is struggling so much with the whole _meeting the family_ fiasco. Fuck, Harry isn’t even _that_ nervous anymore, but Louis seems to be radiating worry. Okay, yeah, it’s more than disheartening to hear that Louis’ mother already doesn’t like him, but Harry’s a charmer, Harry can work under pressure, Harry can make Johannah Tomlinson _love_ him, he’s sure of it. There has never been a mother who hasn’t pinched his cheeks and overfed him, it’s not possible.

“You know,” Harry starts once they’re back in the car and on their way, with Louis’ hands gripping onto the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles might permanently become an ugly off-white color. “Maybe I’m wrong, but isn’t Tomlinson an English name?”

“No,” Louis quips. “Well, yes, technically. But we’ve made it Italian, more or less.”

“Ah,” Harry hums, nodding and turning to look back out the window. Clearly, Louis is in no humoring mood. He doesn’t like the way his boyfriend is under stress, body trembling under pressure that Harry can’t even physically see.

The drive doesn’t take too long at the high speeds Louis is driving at, and soon enough they’re pulling up to a large, wrought iron gate. He can’t see anything behind the big, boulder fence and the solid block of the gate, but Louis speaks into the intercom and like magic the doors swing open revealing nothing but—trees? The mansion Harry was expecting isn’t there, just a small abundance of trees and a single two-lane road in the middle.

It’s surprising that it takes them five minuets to pull up to a circular driveway, but the shock is the house itself. It’s not even a _house_ , more like a palace, a small castle. The building is gigantic, made from some sort of smooth stone, but it looks warm and inviting at the same time. There’s an open, attached garage and Harry can see the dozens of shiny, expensive cars when Louis parks outside of it.

The place is surrounded by trees, but what has Harry straightening up in his seat are the bulky men dressed up all in black with long guns in their hands. What are they doing? Are they some sort of guards?

“I—?” Harry is speechless. He shouldn’t be so surprised—why with all cars Louis drives around and all the money spent at Saint Laurent and Burberry for _Harry_ — but he is, he certainly is. _Damn_. If he thought Louis’ penthouse was impressive… “This is all yours? You grew up here?” Did he get lost as a child?

“Mhm,” Louis nods. “My mom built this, designed it and everything. It’s a bit over the top, but it’s beautiful nonetheless, home. You want to go swimming? We have a pool—and a lake.”

“A _lake_?” Harry affirms. He follows Louis out of the car and jumps slightly when the man grabs his hand. He can’t take his eyes away. Back at the church, Louis was so quick to drop their hands, but here, with his family, it doesn’t seem that important. It’s like he can read Harry’s thoughts, letting go of their clasped hands suddenly.

“Do you not want me to—?” Louis asks, suddenly backing away from him.

“No, no, of course I do,” Harry reassures him, grabbing him again. “I was just a bit surprised; I didn’t think you would do it here, with your family. You didn’t seem to want to be seen so close to me at church.”

Louis looks away guilty. “That was _church_ , Harry. It’s filled with narrow-minded Catholics, who by the way don’t have the nicest history with gays.”

“Let’s forget about that then.” Harry leans down until their lips are centimeters apart. “Is this okay?” Louis nods and closes the space between them, but all Harry can think about are _obligations_ and _wars_ and how _Harry_ is the reason Louis’ _future_ can go down the shitter and how fucking _much_ Johannah Tomlinson hates him already.

They’re making their way up the thick, marble steps when a white Lambo comes thundering in, screeching to a halt inches away from Louis’ black Bugatti. Liam Tomlinson jumps out with a wide grin, dressed down in a gray tee on top of a white henley. The passenger door opens to reveal his girlfriend, the tall girl who waved at Harry what seems like hours ago.

“And that is Liam,” Louis mutters underneath his breath.

“Lou-Lou!” Liam yells, running up the stairs to engulf Louis in a bear hug, the latter who quickly pushes him away with curses. “And you must be Harry,” Liam sticks a formal hand out. “’M Liam, but you must already know that.”

“Nice to see you again,” Harry smiles, shaking Liam’s raspy hand. That month in _Fiction_ he didn’t think he would ever see Louis again, much less be formally meeting his _family_. Funny.

“This here is the Mrs,” Liam throws a heavy arm over the girl.

“Sophia,” she sweetly smiles. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Bro, Ma totally went all physco because you didn’t go the graveyard.”

Louis shrugs. “I had things to do. Actually,” he reaches out and grabs the sleeve of Liam’s shirt, “come here for a sec.” He leads them to the other side of the garage, where Liam takes out a cigarette from his back pocket and listens to Louis mumble about something or another.

“Welcome to the family!” Sophia beams at him when Harry turns back around to face her. “I’m sure you’ll love it. They’re a great bunch.”

“Um, thank you,” Harry smiles, digging his hands into the pockets of his coat. “How long have you and Liam—?”

“For some time now, a bit over a year.” Sophia leans into him, “I think he’s going to pop the question,” she laughs. “He’s been so nervous around me lately, and the other day I accidentally answered his phone and it was a jewelry store calling about a ring.”

“Oh, wow,” Harry nods politely. “And, uh, like Johannah? She likes you?”

“Jay?” Sophia scrunches up her nose. “She’s like a second mom to me; she’s so amazing. After her last husband—Louis’ dad—died, she completely took over the company and it must have been so hard on her, raising seven kids on her own.”

“Yeah, that’s amazing… but has she always liked you?” Harry can’t help himself. It’s no problem when he knows someone doesn’t take on to him and the reason is clear, but there is no reason here! Other then the cryptic information Louis spilled out about ruining his future or whatnot, Johannah really doesn’t know him at all, has no reason to blatantly hate him like she apparently does. What does Sophia have that Harry doesn’t? Tits and a vagina?

“Yeah, I think so,” the young woman nods hesitantly. “I was her secretary first, and then I met, um, Liam. Of course, at that time he was with this girl named Diana or something, she broke up with him when she suddenly got a scholarship to Julliard. And then I swooped in and snatched him right up. We’ve been together ever since.”

“Has it been that long?” Liam jokes from behind them.

“Too long,” Louis mutters, looking at Harry innocently. He wraps his arms around his waist, leaning his chin on Harry’s shoulder.

“Oh, I forgot I was supposed to help the twins with this new dessert. Daisy is still afraid to get too close to the oven,” Sophia states. “I’ll see you in there, Harry. I promise you have nothing to worry about.”

“She’s really sweet,” Harry admits as he clutches Louis’ hands.

“Yeah, it’s such a shame.”

“What do you mean?” He turns around to face his boyfriend. “She seems really happy with Liam, even said something about a ring…”

Louis presses his lips tightly. “It’s a shame, because I highly doubt that ring will be for her. No, don’t look at me like that. Liam’s not cheating on her.” Louis shrugs, “It’s complicated and not really my story to tell. Maybe someday.”

“Anyway,” Louis continues before Harry can even open his mouth. “Why are you worried? You know I won’t let anything happen to you, I’ve got you.”

“I’m not worried, per say. But you did say your mom _hates_ me, Lou, and that kinda worries me. What if your sisters hate me, too? Or your whole family?”

“Okay, maybe hate was too much of an exaggeration. She’s just—she’s really protective. A mother bear, if you wish. Now c’mon,” Louis leads him deeper into the garage and into a heavy door. “Don’t worry alright? Don’t let them intimidate you.”

 _Too late_.

The inside of the house is just as glamorous and beautiful as the outside, if not more. It’s incredibly classic and modern, but comfortable, not cold, but lively. It’s gigantic, but slightly worn; like you can tell actual people live here, unlike Louis’ penthouse. They go through a washroom, where a young lady dressed in a white and red uniform is on her knees washing the two black, hairy mutts in a low, pet-size shower.

“Mr. Tomlinson,” she greets breathlessly. “Welcome home.”

“Thank you,” Louis nods. “Max, Fran,” he whistles at the dogs who bark back in greeting.

The washroom leads into a foyer and then into a grand kitchen, which is alive with people and delicious smells. It’s just—it’s ridiculous. It’s Harry’s dream. The counters are granite and appliances look like they belong in the kitchen of some five star restaurant. There’s an island in the middle with fancy stools, where a teenage girl with dark, flowing hair is sitting, perking up when she sees them.

“Oh, good, Ma isn’t in the kitchen. That means she won’t be out here until dinner,” Louis lets out a long breath.

“Why is that a good thin—“

“Louis!” The girl bounces over them with a big smile. “Hi! You must be Harry!” She throws herself at him, capturing him in an unsuspected hug. “My brother has told me _so_ much about you.”

“She’s a liar,” Louis responds.

“No, I’m not. I’m Fizzy. Do you guys want something to drink? Eat?”

Harry smiles, he can definitely see the resemblance. Fizzy has the same eyes as Louis, big and almond, blue and clear. She can’t be much younger than Harry himself, which. Okay. “No, thank you, I’m—“

“Louis!” comes two more shrieks, this time from the giggly, thin girls sat by Harry at church. They’ve both got the same wide eyes almost every Tomlinson seems to sport, and fine, flossy dirty blonde hair. They bound over to Louis, paying no mind to Harry, and wrap their arms around him.

“Alright, alright, hi,” Louis squirms underneath their touch. He pats at their heads awkwardly, and it shouldn’t be so endearing. “Be polite and say hi to Harry now.”

They both turn to Harry, like they’re just now taking his presence in, and cower behind Louis shyly. “Hi,” they say concurrently.

“This one here,” Louis nods over to the twin on his left, “is Phoebe. And that one is Daisy. Or…Wait, no. This one is Daisy, and that one is Phoebe. Or—wait—“

Daisy rolls her eyes. “That was cute when we were eight, Louis.”

“Now we’re fourteen,” Phoebe says. “I’m going to go see if Franny and Max are ready to play.”

“I’ll come with you!” Her twin nods and follows her out the kitchen.

“They’re so cute,” Harry gushes. “You have so—“

“Louis? Harry?” A soft voice calls from behind them. “Oh my—I can’t believe you’re actually here! Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for this moment? I feel like it’s been _months_ since Louis first came to me asking for _boy advice_ , and now here you are! And you’re so damn hot!”

“Oh, _god_ ,” Louis groans, making his way to the sub-zero fridge. He pulls out two Coronas and sets them on the counter, pulling out his phone from his back pocket, surely going to that app to open the bottles up. “Be careful what you say Lottie—remember what I said about picking up dog shit?”

Lottie, the oldest Tomlinson sister, blanches and throws her hair over her shoulder with an eye-roll. “You wouldn’t do that, you love me too much, whether you know it or not.”

“No, wait,” Harry interludes. “I think I want to hear what Lottie has to say. You asked her for advice?” He nearly coos.

“No!” Louis is quick to deny it, strutting over and placing a beer bottle in Harry’s hand. “You really shouldn’t believe what any of my sisters—or brothers—say about me. Lies—all lies.”

“I bet they only have wonderful things to say about you,” Harry presses his side next to Louis’.

“Yes,” Johannah Tomlinson says as she walks into the kitchen, heel tapping on the marble floors. “We only ever have wonderful things to say about Louis, my _bambino_. What’s this?” She raises an eyebrow at them, and Harry doesn’t miss the way Louis subtly moves away from him. “We’re having a little meet and greet and no one told me?”

The kitchen area is quiet now. Fizzy and Lottie are silent as they look at their mother with wide eyes, the cooking staff has gone silent, too, still dicing and mixing, but with no noise. It’s like the life has gone out of the room. Last but not least, Louis has gone mute, too. His body is leaning away from Harry, eyes glued to the drink in his hands, and it hurts too much.

What is it about this woman? Why does she really hate Harry? Why are they all afraid of her?

Johannah moves around her kitchen at ease, possibly not realizing, or most likely ignoring, the way everything has gone quiet. She tastes a marinara sauce and adds a sprinkle of salt, orders the head cook to start on the _secondi_ , or the main course, which happens to be _osso buco_ , whatever that may be. “Now, Harry,” she says, stirring something in a pot, “do you cook?”

Does he cook? Does _he_ cook? Does he _cook_? Harry looks at Louis quickly, who only shrugs his shoulders in response. “Uh, yes, I do. I love to cook,” he says honestly. “I was always in the kitchen with my mother growing up, until she let me take over a few days out of the week.”

“Hm,” Johannah nods, still moving around the kitchen without looking back at him. “What would you say is your favorite thing to prepare? Anything Italian?”

“I don’t think you can go wrong with meatballs in white wine sauce,” Harry clears his throat. “Cod with tomato is a favorite back home.” Is this some kind of test? Johannah doesn’t come off cold or hostile, maybe just reserved. Is this the same lady Louis said hated him?

“At least we know he won’t starve to death,” Lottie speaks up.

“Hey,” Louis protests. “I can take care of myself.”

“Don’t think you can live long of granola bars, coco puffs, and vodka, Lou,” the blonde teenager replies, unimpressed.

The kitchen grows tense once again when Johannah settles her big, wooden spoon to the side and walks over to Harry. This time, however, Louis doesn’t make any distance between, chooses to wrap an arm around his waist, pulling him closer when his mother stands in front of them. Harry’s heart might beat out of his chest.

“It’s nice to formally meet you, Harry,” Johannah says calmly, a hint of a plausible smile on her features.

Harry laughs nervously and smiles. “It’s nice to meet you, too, Mrs. Tomlinson.”

“Just call me Johannah,” she replies, twirling around and going back to the food. “Oh, Louis, _bambino_ , don’t forget we have a bit of business to do tonight.”

“What?” Lottie asks incredulously. “We have people coming over. We have _Harry_ here.”

Harry starts, “Oh, no, I don’t mind. Whatever you need to—“

“We’re not going to leave Tomlinson grounds,” Louis’ mother interrupts. Johannah dries her hands on a towel and smiles warily. “Harry, it was such a pleasure to meet you, but if you’ll excuse me, business awaits. I trust Stefano will be capable with the rest of dinner tonight.” Her heels click with each step and then she’s gone the same way she first came.

“She’s not that bad, Harry,” Fizzy smiles sympathetically. “She’s just a little stressed right now, family gatherings tend to do that to her.”

“She didn’t seem bad at all, not to me,” Harry replies, turning to look at Louis, who is gripping his glass bottle so hard it might shatter in his hand. “Not bad at all, alright?” Louis only rolls his eyes.

Over the next half hour, things get a bit hectic. More of the help trickle in and eventually shoo everyone out. There’s chicken roasting and salads tossing and the twins and Sophia are putting the finishing touches on a traditional Tiramisu.

Harry loses Louis sometime during the hour, so he wanders off into the living room, where he’s pleased to see a large variety of framed pictures on the bookshelves and the coffee tables, and even more hung up on the walls. There’re baby pictures of all the Tomlinson kids in a row, starting with Liam and ending with the twins. Louis’ framed photograph _has_ to be the cutest, with a tiny baby Louis on his stomach, lying on a blanket in what looks like a park. There’s another one of him, where he’s just a tot, holding onto a big, golden lion.

There’s slight commotion by the grand staircase and when he turns, he sees Liam and Zayn stomping their way down with heavy boots. They’re laughing, but Liam quickly stills when he catches sight of Harry. The tall man nods and leaves Zayn with Harry, heading towards the kitchen.

“Uh, hi,” Zayn greets him with a sheepish smile, walking closer. “If I had known you were going to like, end up being Louis’ boyfriend, I would have never hit on you so hard at the club.”

Harry laughs. “If I had know you and Perrie would be—whatever it is that you are, I wouldn’t have let you.” He doesn’t miss the way the thin boy’s smile drops lightly. What’s up with that? “Where is Perrie, anyway?”

“I’m not sure.” Zayn makes a show of twisting his lean body to look around the massive living room. “She could be lost, hell, she probably is. Like, last week she got trapped in the basement for two or some hours,” he explains with a light chuckle.

“Can’t really blame her,” Harry glances up at the high ceilings and feels overwhelmed. There’s a pause. “And, uh, speaking of Perrie… Your mom—she likes Perrie, yeah?”

“Ah,” Zayn purses his lips knowingly. “I’m guessing you met Jay. Yeah, she and Perrie get along well. She is a bit Italian after all.”

So that _does_ matter? It’s the twenty-first centaury, Harry can’t believe it. “What if I’m not? Italian, I mean. What if I’m not Italian?”

Zayn’s eyes widen, and Harry is kinda mesmerized. His eyes are big, warm like honey, and framed by thick, black eyelashes with such a deep curl Harry can’t believe they didn’t come from a box. He knows Zayn has a few restaurants here and there, paints like a hobby even though his work sells for thousands and he owns his own successful art gallery, but is _model_ on his resume, too? How can it not be?

“It’s a big rule,” Zayn speaks and Harry tears his eyes away, forces himself to stop counting his lashes. “Sorry Harry, but, like, I don’t know how it’ll work between you and Lou if you’re not even a teensy bit.”

“Are _you_ Italian?” Harry blurts out. Oh, no, why? That must sound so rude; Zayn’s going think he’s rude and ignorant.

But Zayn only laughs loudly, his eyes squinting, becoming cute, little half-moons above his sharp cheekbones. Harry knows Zayn is from what he’s read on Wikipedia, but how is it that _all_ three of the brothers do that squinty, crinkly thing with their eyes? Must be some sort of black magic, Illuminati crap.

“No, I’m not Italian. Not at all, but,” Zayn winks at him, “I’m already in the family.”

 _Right_.

Zayn leaves him after that, mumbling something about finding Perrie. Harry doesn’t get much time to ponder over it, as family members start to arrive by bundles, all rowdy and beautiful, ranging from olive skin tones to pale as snow, from dark, almost black eyes, to eyes as light as a summer’s sky. Every Tomlinson is gorgeous, and it’s just not really fair, no it isn’t.

It’s a bit awkward when family members crowd around him, eyes wandering up and down his form in search for a clue as to who he might be. Louis is no where to be seen and Harry doesn’t know what to say. It only takes one aunt, however, to shriek in his ears, pinch his cheeks, and inform everyone that he’s _Louis’ boy_. And that—that feels really nice.

Louis reappears later to be bombarded by questions, but he just shrugs them off and grabs Harry’s waist, leading him around the room, introducing him to everyone as his _boyfriend_. When they’ve met everyone and he’s being lead to the dining room to sit between Louis and Perrie, his cheeks ache and his dimples might become permanent fixtures on his face—he just can’t stop smiling. Louis’ family is warm and welcoming, and they all coo over him, excited that Louis is _finally settling down_ and has _found himself a good boy to be by his side_.

The food is delicious, and every time he moans around a mouthful of _polpette de peppe_ or a spoonful of his cannellini and pancetta sop, Louis’ grip on his thigh below the table gets a little tighter. The dining room table is busy with people talking over each other and waqving their hands dramatically to make a point, but they all get along so nicely, this huge, Italian family, and something settles oddly in Harry’s stomach. He wants that, he wants _this_ , to be a part of this tight family.

The weird part is when Johannah orders one of the help to pile more food on Louis’ plate—Harry agrees, Lou is looking a bit too thing as of late—and then turns to talk to Harry himself. She asks basic things, like stuff about school he can’t find it in himself to care about, or about his hometown, at which he lights up and spills on Boston. Johannah is polite, at least, isn’t harsh or acts disinterested, but she isn’t sweet and warm to him like she is with Perrie or Sophia.

When the twin’s classic tiramisu is being passed out, Harry turns to Perrie. “I don’t know what to do,” he confesses in his friend’s ear, “why does she hate me?”

Perrie turns to him with confused eyes. “Who?”

“Johannah.”

“Jay?” Perrie quirks a brow. “Harry, what are you talking about? She doesn’t hate you.”

“She’s not—she doesn’t like me. That’s easy to tell. She always smiles and laughs at all the shit you and Sophia say, always asks for your opinion, frankly _gushes_ about you two in front of everyone,” Harry admits sourly, “but she’s only spoken to me around five times all day.”

“But she’s _asking_ you things. She’s just trying to get a feel for you, okay?” Perrie rolls her eyes at him and cuts a bite of the tiramisu. “Just calm down, Harry, she’ll love you by the end of the day.”

“Now,” Johannah scoots back from her velvet-backed chair at the head of the large, mahogany oak table. “The boys and I have some business that needs taking care of. Actually, Lottie, why don’t you join us?”

Lottie lets her silver spoon clatter onto the china. She looks up at her mother with resentful, blue eyes and nods once. She silent scoots her chair back and walks out of the room. Harry remembers Louis telling him about the girl almost making her first million, so she must be involved in some sort of business, but she doesn’t look too happy about being called out.

“I’ll be back in a jiffy,” Louis says quietly, hesitating before pressing a sweet kiss on Harry’s cheek.

“Where are you—?”

“Business, baby,” he replies with a slight smirk. He pulls out a thin pair of black, leather gloves from his back pocket “I’ll be back for you, don’t worry.”

It’s quiet as they leave, but the chatter quickly returns to the table. From the floor-to-ceiling glass wall facing out into the expansive backyard, they see the boys and their mother walk calmly towards the pool, passing the Olympic size pool and the small playground section that must have been for the twins at one point.

“The woods?” Perrie questions. “Why are they going out there?”

It’s getting darker by the minuet, the sky an Indigo blue. Harry squints into the dark, but he can’t see anything but thick woods.

“They like to, uh,” Fizzy swallows. “Hunting—they’re going hunting.”

“Hunting,” Perrie repeats. “But it’s so dark out there, they could get hurt.” She stares out the window with worried eyes.

“They’ll be _alright_ ,” Fizzy says shortly.

It’s moments later, when the help are clearing up dishes from the table, that there’s a loud sound and Harry jumps in his seat. It’s a gunshot, clear as day. Birds squawk and hurry out from the tops of the trees and everyone stills, facing the window, but there’s nothing to see.

Harry’s heart is racing. He knows what a gunshot sounds like, maybe more than anyone here, and— _Louis_. Is he alright? Is he hurt? Before he can even open his mouth, two, three, _four_ shots ring loudly, one after the other.

It’s bizarre and strangely astonishing how everyone just goes back to what they were doing. The help continue to clear the table, the girls continue to chatter, and the family continues to talk loudly, laughing amongst themselves. Perrie trembles besides him.

“Really,” Fizzy leans over Zayn’s empty chair to tap Perrie’s knee. “It’s okay, they’re fine.”  

It’s a few minuets later, silence on his part, when Sophia taps him on the shoulder and gives him a sheepish smile. “Harry, Jay would like to see you in her office.”

Perrie gives him a wide grin and a thumbs up, but Harry can only stare at the flourish carpet below his feet as he follows Sophia up the stairs, heart racing. They pass through long hallways with large, gold-framed photographs and heavy, wooden doors, they pass by servants in their uniforms dusting and vacuuming. Finally, wordlessly, they reach a heavy, spiral, wooden staircase that leads them to the fourth floor of the house.

Sophia nods over to the door at the end of the hallway and he thanks her, pushing his way in. Johannah’s office is large, with high bookshelves filled with thick textbooks with weak spines; a desk sits in the middle, oak and intimidating with two chairs in front of it, two windows that take up a whole wall looking out to the backyard and the trees beyond it, a fireplace in the corner. There’s a thick, expensive-looking, printed rug underneath his feet, high wooded-beam ceiling above his head, and more picture frames on lower shelves. But there is no Johannah Tomlinson.

He has a picture of a young Louis with the twins in his hands when the door swings open and Johannah saunters in. Harry gapes at the sight of her bare hands covered with blood, a crimson-tainted towel in her grip. He fights back the urge to run to her and ask her what’s wrong, if she’s hurt, but his boyfriend’s mother is as cool as a cucumber, wiping her hands nonchalantly, ignoring the blood drops staining the Oriental rug.

“That’s—are you okay?”

“Oh, of course,” she replies with phony smile. “I’ve never been better, if I’m honest. Can you give me a moment?” Johannah passes by him and into a door besides the fireplace, and soon he can hear the rushing of water.

“Do you like your visit so far? How has the Tomlinson estate treated you?” Johannah asks when she walks back in, hands clean and clasped in front of her.

“You’ve got a beautiful home. Thank you for inviting me.”

“Oh, why, I didn’t,” Johannah has a robotic smile. “Louis invited you, dear, not me.” She sits on the plush, executive chair behind the desk and waves a manicured hand towards the chairs in front.

 _Right_. It’s silent, the air tense, and Johannah hasn’t said a word again, just watching him with icy, beady eyes. “How, um, like, how was hunting?” he asks, desperate to get the attention away from him.

The woman raises her brows. “Hunting? It’s much too late for hunting, dear, don’t be silly,” she replies in a patronizing tone. “Now, why don’t you tell me something about yourself, Harry Styles.”

“What would you—“

“But let’s not beat around the bush,” she interrupts. “I don’t trust you. I don’t trust one hair on that curly mess of yours. Louis is very important to me and to this family. He’s my baby boy, my—well, my first born if I dare say it.”

Harry swallows. “Your first born? I was under the impression Liam was your eldest.”

Johannah sighs. “He is, Liam. Liam is such a sweet boy, so strong and brave, but it’s not the same. Louis…has certain qualities that Liam doesn’t obtain. Liam was a mistake, a beautiful one, but a mistake nonetheless. I did not love his father; I had plans to marry someone else, I was in _love_ , but I was a young kid, too, Harry, just like you, and I made a mistake. Louis was my first child born out of love, and I think that makes him a much bigger reward.”

Harry doesn’t get it. He’s not parent, but he finds it cruel that a mother would call their child a mistake, an accident. His own parents have never showed favoritism, and he wonders if Liam and the rest of the children feel that, if they see the clear, high pedestal from which Johannah has sat Louis upon.

The door opens and Sophia walks, heels clicking against the floor until she reaches Johannah’s side. She has an iPad in her hands, which she quickly sets down in front of the older woman, and then goes to stand by her flanks.

“Ah, perfect,” Johannah powers up the tablet. “Thank you, Sophia.” Harry can’t see what she’s doing on the device, but he sees her fingers moving, nails tapping against the screen. “Let’s see. Harry Styles, from Boston, Massachusetts…I’m assuming you have parents, Harry.”

“Uh, yes?”

“Names please.”

“Des—Des Styles and Anne Twist. Why are you—“

“Do you smoke?” Johannah asks in interest.

“Pardon? No, no I don’t.”

“That’s good, a healthy boy.” Harry watches as Sophia rushes over to the side of the room where a buffet holding clear, sculpted bottles with honey liquid and a brown box, sits. She picks up the box and sets it on the desk. “I wish my boys would take a note from your book. They’ve been smoking since such a young age,” Johannah sighs wistfully, “especially Zayn, started so young, that rebellious boy.”

The box is lined with dark blue velvet and it holds rows of thick cigars. Johannah runs her finger along the skin of each before plucking one out and holding it in her hand. “These are Montecristo 2; one of the best cigars in the world,” she says. “These here have been aged for forty-five years, can you believe that? Older than me and you, both.” She cuts the head of the cigar and Sophia is there with a gold Zippo lighter, flame burning.

“Louis is special,” Johannah continues, holding the smoke in her mouth before letting it go. “I knew he was gay since he was a teenager, but he didn’t have the nerve to tell me until a few years back, understandably. I don’t trust anyone, Harry. Especially not with my boy. He’s very special.”

“I know,” Harry replies truthfully.

“Do you really?” She stands from her chair and walks towards the flat fireplace, flicking her ashes inside. “I don’t think _I_ can even comprehend how unique my boy is, and I made him. I’m not happy that he’s chosen you, Harry, surely you’ve noticed.”

Ha. That’s a bit of an understatement—he’s had it thrown in his face all night. “I’ve noticed, yes.”

Johannah sighs and huffs out a puff of gray smoke, the air sweet and tense. “All I wanted was for him to settle down with a nice girl, someone sweet and beautiful, a model, perhaps. Someone who would make him look good in everything, someone to bare his children.” She turns around at that and stares at him. “But Louis has never respected my wishes, the little devil. He’s my _stella_ , and my most stubborn child. And he has chosen you—a young boy still in university, in dire need of a haircut.”

He knows that. Harry knows how unworthy he is of someone like Louis Tomlinson. He _is_ a young boy, only eighteen years with so much ahead of him, but he’s in love. He’s in love and he can’t let him go. And there’s nothing wrong with his damn hair, he rocks it, he’ll let it flow forever if he wishes, Johannah Tomlinson be damned.

“Louis has obligations, Harry, as you must know. He has businesses to care for and there’s so much on his plate—I can’t let him screw that up. I can’t let him forget about his future, his goals, his plans. I can’t let him be distracted by some young thing with fancy Gucci shirts and skinny jeans.”

Harry’s throat is dry, and oh how that whiskey is calling his name. “I’m a distraction, is what you’re saying.”

“Yes,” Johannah is quick to be blunt. “You are a distraction and that’s the last thing my son needs. I’m not to sure his needs can be well taken care of with you by his side.”

“Um, I—I,” Harry swallows. He forgets Sophia is in the room until he meets her pitiful eyes and has to look away. He highly doubts she got the same talk, considering Liam was a _mistake_.

“Louis is a powerful man. He could take over the world some day.” She laughs, “Maybe that’s an exaggeration. I’m a mother first, what can I do?” She comes back to plop down on her chair. “I can’t have just anyone with my boy, Harry, surely you can understand.”

He nods. No, No, he doesn’t understand.

“Just one last question, if I may. Are you Italian?”

Ah, the dreaded question. The question of the whole fucking day. “I don’t know,” he admits sourly. “I think I’m just English.”

Johannah purses her lips and nods. “Sophia, that’s something we need to look at when we do the background check, please remind me.”

The _what_?

“The what? A background check?” He feels his blood start to boil—who the hell does this woman thing she is? “Why are you doing that?”

“Harry,” she deadpans. “Have you not heard a word I just said? I don’t trust you, much less with my son. I need to know what kind of person you are, where you come from, if you pose any threat to my family.”

“And you think you’re going to find all of that in a damn background check?”

“Yes,” Johannah says. “Now,” she reawakens her iPad. “I’ve got a lot of things to do. Sophia will see you out.”

“Come on, Harry,” Sophia mumbles, grabbing his arm gently and leading him out the door.

“It was...nice meeting you,” Johannah calls out before the door slams shut.

The trip back to the first floor is as silent as before, but Harry doesn’t get to worry before he sees Louis waiting at the bottom of the staircase, arms pinned over his chest, lips pressed tightly together in a frown.

“Harry! What did she say to you?” Louis asks frantically, looking Harry up and down, like he’s searching for some sort of physically proof.

“I don’t—,” Harry frowns. “I’m not really sure what happened.”

“Fuck,” Louis cries. “Sophia, what did she—?”

“Sorry, Lou,” Sophia mutters. “I should go find Liam.”

Louis doesn’t wait until she leaves to start stomping up the stairs, making as much noise as his dainty feet can—which really, isn’t much. He’s cursing under his breath, taking the steps two at a time, but while Harry is clumsier, and surely slower, he’s got the longer legs.

“Lou, c’mon, let’s just go,” he pleads, wrapping his arms around his boyfriend until the man stops moving, holding him down in his place like an anchor. “She’s your mother. It’s not a big deal.”

Louis squirms in his hold but doesn’t move up any further. He places his hands on Harry’s pale cheeks and sighs. “She scared you, didn’t she? What did she say? Your skin is cold, H, what did she _say_ to you?”

“N-nothing.”

Louis nearly growls, “Stop fucking lying to me!”

“Louis,” he begs. “I’m fine, I’m fine. Please, let’s just go.”

His boyfriend hesitates, but soon enough he’s nodding. He goes up one step and smiles as he leans down, grabbing Harry’s face and pulling him closer, their lips melding together in melody. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles against Harry’s lips. “I’m sorry.”

 

They’re speeding down the highway when it hits Harry. There’s no way to stop Louis’ mother from getting that background check. Johannah has his hometown and his parent’s names, and if employers can do it, so can _Time_ magazine’s _Most Influential Woman of the Year_. He’s fucked.

He doesn’t understand why Johannah hates his guts the way she does. Okay, sure, he gets the distraction  excuse, but Harry would never purposefully make Louis forget about his dreams and goals. He _wants_ Louis to succeed; he wants Louis to be happy doing whatever it is that he wants to do. And that bullshit about not being able take care of his needs? What needs exactly, because for Louis, Harry could do it all.

To Harry, it seems like Zayn doesn’t even really _like_ Perrie all that much, but Johannah has no problem with her. And, _oh_. Perrie is a woman, Sophia is a woman, Johannah wanted Louis to settle down with a fucking model. Maybe it’s not what wrong with him, but what’s wrong with _Johannah Tomlinson_.

Even if that’s the case, Louis still believes Harry is older than he truly is. The background check that’s possibly being done right at this very moment will reveal everything, so who should Louis hear it from? His lying boyfriend or his creepy mother?

Harry gulps in a big gust of air and lets it out slowly. He knows he needs to do this. He shouldn’t lie to Louis any longer; it’s not right, nor is it healthy for their young relationship. He glances over at his boyfriend, whose eyes are on the road, mumbling under his breath. “Louis, can I say something?”

“No, Harry,” Louis frowns. “I know what you’re going to say, baby, but just—I get it.”

_Baby?_

“No, I really don’t think you do.”

“I do, Harry, stop. My mom was being a complete bitch to you. It was inappropriate and condescending. She’s going to have to get used to seeing you around.”

“Louis—“

“I mean, there are like, more important things to worry about. Liam and Zayn, for instance,” he mutters quietly, like an afterthought. “But what the hell, she had no right coming at you like that. You can bet your pretty little ass I’m going to have a talk with her.”

“Lou, I need—“

“Why isn’t she freaking out over Lottie being bisexual or whatever? There are dozens of pictures of her on the fucking internet awkwardly kissing one of her friends. Why haven’t we had a family meeting about _that_? Double standards, I’m telling ya, Harry, you—“

“Louis, shut _up_.” Harry raises his voice.

Louis snaps his eyes to him. “Fine,” he grumbles. “I was just trying to defend you, meanie.”

“I’m not—,” Harry squeezes his eyes shut. _Fuck_. “I’m not twenty-one, Louis. I lied.”

“You’re not—you’re not twenty-one?” He raises his brows and frowns. “What do you mean?”

“I literally mean I’m not twenty-one. I’m not—‘m not a junior, either.” Louis doesn’t say anything and Harry keeps going. “I’m a freshman, actually. I’m eighteen.”

Louis is silent. He nods, but tightens his lips together in his trademark annoyed expression. He’s quick to pull over and into the parking lot of a BK. He shuts the car off and turns to Harry with cold eyes, and there it is. _Now_ Harry’s scared.

“Are you _shitting_ me?” Louis grits out between his teeth.

“No,” Harry whispers.

Louis cackles dryly, voice filling up the gaps between them. “Eighteen! Eighteen motherfucking years old. Really, Harry? You’re the same age as—oh, _God,_ I fucked a _child_.” He drops his head into his hands on the steering wheel.

“I’m not a—“

Louis snaps back up and demands his license. “Oh, fuck. Oh _fuck_ ,” he chants once he gets a good view on the DOB.

“I mean,” Harry chuckles nervously. “Six years? That’s not so bad.”

“Not so bad—! I fucked a child, Harry! I’m like a fucking pedophile.”

“A pedophile is attracted to prepubescent children, like 10 year olds. The word you’re looking for is ephebophilia and—“

“Now is really not the time,” Louis says firmly. “Why did you do this? Why did you lie?”

“I didn’t think I would ever see you again, Lou,” Harry speaks softly. “You just assumed and, well, I didn’t stop you. Perrie took me to that club, I kinda just followed her in. I didn’t—I didn’t know we would be _together_. I didn’t want to lie.”

“I don’t need this,” Louis says after a long pause. He lets his head drop back to the middle of the steering wheel, the horn honking, but no one flinches. “I don’t need this.I have idiots tracking my every move, the feds know who _you_ are, my brothers are fucking, I have to go to goddamn Russia to deal with the fucking homophobes since apparently I’m _out_ now. I’m—I—fuck. You’re _eighteen_.”

Harry can’t move. He doesn’t think the blood in his body is circulating. He doesn’t understand what Louis means, but he doesn’t want to ask, either. Frankly, he’s scared. He doesn’t know what anything means as of late.

Louis lifts his head back up and starts the car without another word.

 


	15. Russia and Ireland

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back. Thank you all so much for all the lovely comments you've left so far! They're so incredibly nice to read!
> 
> We meet someone special in this chapter, and they're one of my favs.
> 
> Disclaimer: Not mine. Original is There Will Be Blood by Johnnyboy7. I DO have permission to rewrite this. Also, check it out if you'd like, but be careful of the spoilers. I won't be answering questions about that. The plot, story, characters, etc are not mine. Neither is One Direction.

 

* * *

 

_“No one fights dirtier or more brutally than blood; only family knows it’s own weaknesses, the exact placement of the heart. The tragedy is that one can still live with the force of hatred, feel infuriated that once you are born to another, that kinship lasts through life and death, immutable, unchanging, no matter how great the misdeed or betrayal. Blood cannot be denied, and perhaps that’s why we fight tooth and claw, because we cannot—being only human—put asunder what God has joined together.”  ― Whitney Otto, How to Make an American Quilt_

 

 

 

He frowns as he looks down at his empty suitcase. Could a folded-up Harry squeeze in there? With his mile-long legs and lanky, but toned, arms, Louis doubts his boy could fit into his luggage, even his extra-large one that Alberto always struggles with. He shrugs and gently places a nicely ironed t-shirt inside the empty space.

Time passes quickly as he grabs things from his closet and his drawers, and fills up his lone suitcase. They won’t be spending too much time in Russia, just one, or two, or three nights maximum if everything goes according to plan. And it should all work out, but—it’s a big deal what Louis is going to do. After this he might be even more of a target… but he’ll be able to hold Harry’s hand in public, and isn’t that the greatest and sappiest thing you’ve ever heard?

He pushes the suitcase onto the floor and heaves back on the bed. He can’t believe it, no matter how many times he goes over the plan in his head, he can’t grasp the motion. He’s going to come out, like, officially, just because of a boy he bandaged up in a club, a boy who is _eighteen years old_ , a boy who paints his nails and lips and wears lacy thongs. Louis is going to come out to the crime world _and_ the real world as a gay man, something he never thought he would do.

When he was growing up, he saw the picture of his future completely different. Hell, even just a few months back he thought he would someday be unhappily married to a woman, living in the suburbs, with a pair of snotty little kids, but now—now it’s all different. It’s frightening, of course it is, all of it.  Even now as he lays back on his bed staring at his spotless ceiling with his pulse echoing in his ears, he knows it’s worth it—the violence that’s sure to come, the early mornings spent at the office just to get nights with Harry, the inevitable arguments with his mother.

 _His mother_ , who isn’t even talking to him, is icing him out after their bad argument last Sunday night. Their fights have never reached to that level before. They’ve fought before, obviously—they’re mother and son, they’re bound to have different views on things, but Louis found Johannah’s behavior completely and utterly despicable. He’s twenty-four goddamn years old, the whole _looking out for you_ , _think about your future_ , _you can’t afford any distractions, Louis, you’ve got goals_ shit isn't be applicable; he can make his own choices, and Harry isn’t someone he’s willing to give up for _anything_.

He knew he had his work cut out for him. He knows that if Harry was a _Harriet_ , everything would be different; his mom would be welcoming and friendly, not cold and unforgiving. But Harry is Harry, and Louis had never brought anyone home before, and perhaps he should regret it considering the pale that haunted Harry’s cheeks and the fight with his mother, but—but he doesn’t. He’s glad it’s out of the way, and while he never wants his boyfriend to be talked to like that ever again, everyone—from his family, to the crime bosses, to damn _Johannah Tomlinson_ —will know where he stands, and that’s besides his boy.

Louis is anxious about Russia, especially the part where he’s going to be stuck in a small, confined space thousands of feet in the air with his brothers and mother for more than nine hours. He’s seen Jay several times throughout the week—Fizz and Zayn keep trying to push them back on a reconciled path—but Louis refuses to speak about anything other than business, and even then his words are short and blunt.

Louis shakes the bad energy from his mind, groaning at the time on his iPhone—still too early to get to Midway International. He smiles as he scrolls through his camera roll, fondly rolling his eyes at all the selfies that have accumulated over the past few days. It’s not unusual, but he and Harry have spent every night together since Sunday, some days cuddled up in Harry’s tiny bed, others on Louis’ luxurious California king.

He’s still not great at the boyfriend thing, still hesitant with lights touches and softly-spoken words, but he still takes Harry out to his favorite places around the city and he still reads to Harry every once in a while. Harry has been so patient and understanding, how can Louis not be thankful? The tall boy makes him laugh and relax; quickly becoming the favorite part of Louis’ long, stressful day.

Louis can’t even find it in him to be angry about Harry’s age. It feels a bit odd that his boyfriend and his sister were born months apart, but he tries not to linger on that thought. It sort of doesn’t matter to him anymore, it’s not like he’s going to _breakup_  with Harry, or whatever people do these days, because of their age difference.

There are times during the night, when Harry is pressed up against his chest, that he becomes his own worst enemy. His mind is a mantra of things that can possibly go wrong, things that could tear their relationship apart—be it the lies, his mother, the business, the age difference, whatever. He can’t let that happen, refuses to become a victim. He has to look down at Harry’s soft, sleeping face, and all determination flows back into him.

Louis’ mouth dries up when he stumbles upon a picture of Harry. It’s his boy, spread against Louis’ black, silk sheets, pert, little ass high in the air. He remembers that night clearly, just two days ago, remembers the way he head a death lock on his hair and the moans that convulsed with his body. Louis frowns as he drops his phone on the bed, wills his body to remain calm—he doesn’t have time for that now, or the energy.

It’s going to be a rough few days without his boy by his side. They haven’t had sex again since the first night—Harry is keen on the test and Louis hasn’t had the time—but that hasn’t stopped them from having a good time or getting to know each other’s bodies better. Like this morning, when he woke up the boy with his mouth on him, sucked him off until Harry couldn’t take it anymore, releasing hot white into Louis’ mouth.

He’s going to really _, really_ miss waking up next to Harry these next few days.

Waking up next to Harry, having breakfast in bed, and watching episodes of _Breaking Bad_ on Netflix with him makes Louis feel like _hey_ , _maybe this boyfriend shit isn’t so bad_. But then he has to do things like this morning, when he kissed Harry goodbye and promised to call every night, and he remembers he isn’t any typical boyfriend, he’s the son of the world’s stealthiest mob boss, and he does bad things that Harry will never understand. That ruins the illusion.

He has to learn a way to separate his two worlds; otherwise he and Harry will never make it.

Louis jumps from the bed when the landline on his nightstand rings. He rolls until he reaches the edge. “Tomlinson.”

“ _Mr. Tomlinson,_ ” comes the voice from the other end, “ _your car is here._ ”

“Thank you.” He hangs up and picks himself off his soft, warm bed. He looks down at his outfit—a new, green, Adidas hoodie for the chilly air in the jet, black jeggings, his usual black Vans. He slings his backpack onto his back and pockets his phone.

With one last look around, he notes everything is in order and rolls his suitcase down the hallway, picking it up down the stairs, and shuffles into his private elevator. His usual driver is waiting for him by an unwary black Mercedes, immediately reaching for Louis’ luggage, dropping it gently in the trunk of the sedan. Louis hops into the car without another word, setting his backpack at his feet.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Tomlinson,” Briar greets him as he starts the car. “Are you ready for the frigid weather of Moscow?”

“Not quite,” Louis chuckles politely. “It’s a family matter, as you must know by now.”

Briar nods. “Of course, Sir,” he replies before speeding off into oncoming traffic.

Louis feels his phone vibrate in his back pocket, shifting his hips up to slide it out. Harry.

**_Have you left yet?_ **

_No,_ Louis texts. _Im on my way to midway int right now_

Harry’s reply comes in quickly. **_Oh, good! Just wanted to wish you luck!! So. Good luck!_**

_Thanks ! but good luck on what ?_

**_Your business things and stuff… Sell lots of condos. :)_** **_  
_ **

Oh right, _that_ business. Louis looks out the blacked-out window and sees they’re getting closer to the airport. _I’ll bring you something_ , he adds. _Anything in mind ?_

**_Yes! Do you think you could get one of those cute, furry floppy-ears hat-types? Those are so nice for winter._ **

Louis laughs. He was thinking more on the lines of mink furs or _Russo-Baltique_ vodka, but floppy-ear hats work, too. _Of course baby_ , he responds. The car stops and he realizes they’re already on the tarmac. He sees Liam hanging by the jet. He’s about to lock his phone when another green bubble appears.

**_I’ll have a present waiting for you when you get back, too._ **

What does that—his phone buzzes again, this time with a picture message. Oh, _fuck_. His boy is all the way across town, in his tiny dorm bed, in tiny, lace panties, _alone_. The pink lace looks soft and inviting against Harry’s creamy, pale skin, hugging his pert cheeks. He should—he should be there with him, right now. He scrambles to reply.

 _Princess, are you wearing that right now ?_ He knows how much Harry loves being called that, how his cheeks flush and his eyes shift away, how his slight Adam’s apple bobs. He wants to order Briar to take a page out of a _Fast and Furious_ movie and hit the petal, racing back to Harry’s dorm room. Louis wants nothing more than his hands touching every centimeter of sweet, smooth skin.

It’s like Harry can read his mind when he replies _, **don’t go. I need you.** _

Louis knows there are two meanings to that. How badly would his mother kill him if he were to turn the car around right now and go to Harry? She already thinks of his boyfriend as a distraction, and, well, it’s _true_. Harry Styles _distracts_ him; Harry Styles never leaves his mind. He gets an idea.

_Don’t touch yourself !_

The answer is quick. **_Buttttttt Loooooouis :(_** ** _  
_**

If he closes his eyes, he can see Harry rutting against his bedspread, ass in the air, his skin flushed and warm against the sheets, underneath the lace, pained whines coming from swollen, rose lips. They’ve talked a bit about this before, their sexual preferences, and it was with shy eyes and lip-biting that Harry confessed to liking when it hurts, to loving following orders. Right now is the perfect time to test it out, to see if Harry will keep his hands off himself until Louis comes back and gives his permission.

_I don’t want you to touch yourself until I come back . Can you be good and follow my orders ?_

**_Yes, yes, yes… I’m a good boy, I’m your good boy. I can wait for you._ **

“Mr. Tomlinson? Sir?” Briar calls from up in the front, “We’re, uh, here. Your family waits.”

He looks up, and yep, sure enough Liam is squinting towards the car with impatience and Johannah doesn’t look too happy to be kept waiting. “Thank you, Briar.”

**_I won’t touch myself, I promise._**

**_No matter how bad it hurts, I won’t come without your permission._ **

**_Lou, I promise._ **

**_I’ll be a good boy, I can be the best._ **

**_Lou?_ **

Louis shifts in his seat. Should he be so turned on by this, that Harry won’t fucking _come_ until Louis is back, until he has his hands on him? Harry is in lacey panties, hard and aching, and he’ll only relieve himself when Louis says so, with Louis’ approval, and— _fuck_. How did he get so lucky?

_I have to go now , princess. Behave._

**_Be safe!_ **

**_I’ll miss you._ **

Louis hesitates over the screen. Of course he would miss Harry, that’s a no-brainer. Does Harry want him to say it back? _Should_ he say it back? He shrugs and types, _I’ll miss you, too._ He opens the car door and waits for his luggage, stuffing his iPhone back into his back pocket without another glance. He thanks his driver and rolls the luggage over to the jet, where his family waits.

“ _Finally_!” Liam exclaims. He looks excited, bouncing on his feet like an impatient child. He always gets this way before something big is about to happen, talks about it for days beforehand. “You only took forever.”

“I was busy, not that it’s any of your business.” Louis replies coolly. His eyebrows furrow in surprise when he sees locks of bright, white-blonde hair. “Lots? What are you doing here?”

Lottie shrugs and wraps her arms around Louis’ frame. Odd. “I thought I could go shopping! I haven’t been to Moscow in since I was twelve, and let’s face it; I had no fashion sense back then.”

“You think you have fashion sense now?” Zayn teases, shuffling his Gucci carry-on further up his shoulder. “You look like all the other grunge-hipster-y girls on Tumblr.”

“Excuse you,” Lottie scoffs. “I’m so not—“

“Lottie,” Johannah speaks up. “Are you sure you want to come with, _cara_? It’s not too late to get someone to drive you back home to Dan and the girls. This trip won’t be pleasant, and you’re mental if you think I’m about to let you go shopping around Moscow.”

“ _Ma_ ,” the teenager whines. “I’ll be fine.”

When they’re aboard, settled nicely into plush, leather seats, Zayn slips in the seat besides his and knocks their knees together. “Alright? You looked a bit pale when you got out of the car.”

“Yeah,” Louis can’t help the twitch in his pants as he remembers his last conversation with Harry, the way his boyfriend’s ass looked biteable, creamy, in the lace. “I’m good. We’ve got many things to do in Russia, I suppose.”

“I’m guessing _you_ have things to do on your own in Russia, don’t you? You’re really gonna do it, Lou?”

“I don’t have a choice.”

“You always, like, could—“

“I fucking hate Russia,” Liam pouts, plopping down on a seat in front of them, buckling in. “It’s so dreary all the time and the people always sound angry.”

“Think of all the vodka,” Louis suggests.

“I’d rather he _not_ ,” Zayn mutters dryly. “Last time he did that, he got sent to rehab.”

After a few hours, Louis is positive there will be no chaos on the flight. Lottie is quiet and lounging in one the sleeping cabins, his brothers are bickering over a game of Fifa and snacking on chips, and his mother is typing away on her Macbook. Johannah hasn’t spoken directly to him, and Louis isn’t about to speak a word.

It all goes to shit when an hour later, Johannah snaps her laptop shut, stands, grabs her large handbag, and plops down in front of Louis. She takes a manila folder from her Céline and spreads out a few documents on the table in between them. “Are we going to act like children, Louis? Ignoring one another?”

“Yes,” Louis snips. They’re landing to refuel in JFK soon and the last thing he wants to do is get into it with his mother. He continues to swipe through his e-mails on his iPad.

“I did what I thought was right,” Johannah continues, looking over some of her paperwork. “My family is _everything_ to me, Louis, contrary to what you might believe. I do what I need to do to keep everyone safe.”

“ _Safe_ ,” Louis repeats incredulously. “Safe from what? From who—Harry? Harry would never hurt anyone, much less me.”

Johannah slams her palm down. “Do you have _any_ idea who this boy is, Louis William? _Do_ you? You’ve been nothing but foolish! You’re distracted, your judgement is clouded by this boy, by this—this _idea_ , this illusion of love.”

“No,” Louis grits out. “I’m not in love with him. But, if you must know, an illusion is the state of being deceived, a misleading impression of reality, and Harry—Harry and I are far from that. It’s not— _we’re not_ an illusion.”

Johannah is quiet for a few seconds, but that short amount of time feels like decades to Louis. Finally she speaks up again, shuffling the papers beneath her nose. “I had Sophia order a background check on this Styles boy and—“

“You had _no right_!” Louis cries. “He’s not some shit criminal, he’s not a fucking client! He owes you _nothing_. He’s innocent in all of this, he’s pure. He doesn’t deserve your fucking treatment.”

 Johannah taps her nails against the wood surface. “Do you have any idea how stupid you look with that _boy_?” she hisses. “Do you know how old he is?”

“That doesn’t matter to me, anymore. I really don’t care.”

“Get off his back, Ma,” Liam yells from up in the front. The video game is paused. “Isn’t Harry the same age as—that girl Zayn is dating? Who's that girl?”

“Perrie,” Zayn mumbles.

“No,” Johannah answers defiantly. “Louis here is having sex with an eighteen-year old boy.”

“We’re not even fucking!” Louis shouts. “Not that it’s any of your business,” he quickly adds, “not that I don’t _want_ to have sex, because I do, but—that’s not the point!”

“ _Ew_!” Comes a flabbergasted gasp from behind them. Lottie stands there with sleep-messy hair and wide eyes. “He’s the same age as me!”

“You don’t think I’ve noticed?” Louis rolls his eyes.

“Fix your life, Louis,” Johannah draws the attention back to herself.

“You need to stay _out_ of it,” Louis replies angrily.

“ _Impossibile_ ,” she says stubbornly. “Until my very last day on this damned Earth, your life will be my life. I gave you life, Louis Tomlinson, and I can easily take it away from you!”

Louis laughs manically. “Then what’s stopping you? Are you seriously getting so fucking angry over something—someone that makes me happy? Harry is the only normal thing I have in my life right now, and isn’t that what you are always going on about? Looking normal, acting normal? With everything that’s happening, plus _you_ , I need him. He’s good for me.”

No one speaks after that. Johannah swallows angrily and goes back to her papers; Lottie slams the door to a cabin behind her, and the Fifa game un-pauses. A flight attendant dressed in a black, pristine uniform informs them they have landed to refuel, and Louis is the first out the door, a pack of Marlboros in his back pocket.

He drops the butt of the cigarette on the tarmac, pressing his foot on it like it personally offended him. He’s quick to pull another and light it up, feeling his tense muscles relax as the toxic smoke makes its way down his system. He’s noticed how he doesn’t smoke nearly as much when he’s around Harry, the younger boy who always rolls his eyes and scrunches his nose at him and his filthy habit.

Louis watches as his brother climbs the steps of the jet calmly, running a hand through his long, black hair. “Let me get at one of those,” Zayn says, holding his hand out for a smoke. Louis hands over the pack and his cheap, BIC lighter. “Things got like, really serious back there. I don’t think anyone knew it was that bad between you two.”

“Yeah,” Louis releases a cloud of gray smoke. “It’s not—it’s never been this bad.”

“Obviously,” Zayn purses his lips in thought. “D’you know why, though? Why she’s acting like a mad woman about this?”

“No. I don’t understand why she can’t just be fucking happy for me. Either that or just—or just leave me the hell alone. I think I’m going to lose my mind.”

Zayn sighs besides him. “Lou, c’mon, be serious, bro. You know she can’t do that.”

Louis takes another pull. “I don’t see why not.”

“Everyone knows you’re the heir to this shit. People already call you the fucking _principe_ ,” Zayn laughs mutely. “You’re gonna be boss some day; you have to see where Ma is coming from.”

“I know that, I know that’s my inevitable future.” Louis puff angrily at the cig between his fingers. “Why can’t I be all that and still be happy and shit?”

Zayn shrugs. “Guess she’s just trying to protect you. She thinks she’s doing what’s best, like she said.”

“Are you really taking her side?” Louis steps back to look at his brother.

“I’m not taking anyone’s side, Lou,” the thin man rolls his eyes gracefully. “We’re not in grade school. What Ma did with Harry was wrong; sure, she didn’t have to pounce on him like she did. It _was_ a bitch move; I’m not saying otherwise, it’s just, like, she’s doing what’s best for this family.”

“Family,” Louis scoffs. “Is that what we are, then, all of us?”

“Louis...”

“It’s fucked up!” Louis bellows. “She has no problem with Liam’s apocryphal relationship with Sophia. She fucking loves Perrie, even though _you_ don’t. You guys aren’t happy with those girls, but that’s perfectly A-okay, that’s no problem! But I—I actually like this person.”

“It’s different,” Zayn adds quietly, “for Li and I.”

“Isn’t that fucked up, then?” Louis throws the butt of his cig on the tarmac. “She’s going crazy, jumping down my throat, for my relationship with a boy, but she couldn’t give two shits about the relationship between her two other sons.”

“She knows, doesn’t she?”

“Yeah, man,” Louis nods gravely. “I didn’t say anything, but you know Ma, she finds out about everything.”

Zayn kicks at the ground with his black creepers. “We’re not going to be the boss, Lou, it’s not—like, it’s not as high-risk. She’s put everything in your future. Someday, Li and I, if it all works out, we’ll leave, we’ll be ready to run, escape from the city.”

“Do you—you love him don’t you?”

“Yeah, man,” Zayn ducks his head, laughing lightly. “I’ve loved him since—since we were eighteen. Long before we even knew what it meant.”

“Yeah,” Louis gulps. Will he get there with Harry some day? He remembers making fun of Liam and Zayn’s relationship, their love, but now... Now it doesn’t seem so funny, or unrealistic, or even pathetic. He doesn’t know what love feels, it it’s all just an illusion like his mother claims, but—he doesn’t know.

“Hey, don’t worry,” Zayn punches him on the shoulder. “I know it still freaks you out—this thing, whatever you have with Harry—but don’t worry; you’ll get there, too. Love isn’t that bad, promise. You’ll get there.”

“Lou! Z!” Lottie calls from the jet, waving them over.

“I’ll see you in there,” Zayn gives him a small smile, handing over the reds.

“Yeah,” Louis looks down at the red and white square package in his hands. “I don’t even know if I _want_ to get there,” he admits quietly, but when he looks up, he’s alone.

 

He wakes up a few hours later to Harry’s mix on his iPhone still playing, one earbud in, the other underneath his pillow. It’s the same hipster, folk-y music he’s not usually into, but after hearing it every time they’re confined in the dorm room, it’s kinda—it’s not _bad_. He stumbles out of the cabin with sleepy eyes and sees his brothers sat together on one of the couches, peering over an iPad.

“Good morning, sunshine,” Johannah  greets him, still looking over documents at the table.

“Please don’t,” Louis rubs at his eyes. “I hate when you do that, when you pretend that everything’s ‘kay when it’s not.”

“Well, then, _bambino_ ,” Johannah shrugs lightly, pressing her lips together. “The only one with a problem here seems to be you. I’m your mother, and it’s my duty as that to look out for you and protect you against anyone who would try to sabotage you or your future. I’m sorry if you can’t see it clearly.”

“ _Sabotage_? The only person trying to sabotage anything is you!”

His mother sighs before giving him a slight, patronizing, closed-lipped smile. “Whatever you say, _tesoro_ , but I know you. I know you, Louis, and I know you bore of things easily. So why get so riled up over someone we all know will bore you eventually? You’ll drop Harry sooner or later.”

Louis can’t stop the furious trembles that shake his core, going outwards like an earthquake. He feels a rage in him that he has never felt before, surely not towards the woman who gave him life, never. She’s wrong, so painfully, incredibly incorrect about _everything_ in regards to his relationship with Harry. He has to remind himself that she’s his mother, otherwise it wouldn’t be such a hardship.

“You’re wrong,” he speaks through clenched teeth. “You know _shit_ about Harry, or about me. You’re only looking out for yourself, for your business. Ever since I was twelve, it’s been nothing but business. That’s all—”

“Oh, God,” Johannah gives him a stony look. “Is this what this is about? Louis, if you’d like, when we get back to Chicago we can schedule another appointment with the family therapist, but right now is not the time. You know I love you, just like I love Li and Zayn and Lottie and Fizzy and the twins. But, with that being said, it’s not the same for you or Liam or Zayn, and we all know that. I can’t allow you to be with just anyone.”

“Allow me?” Louis laughs in astonishment, “I’m not a kid anymore, Ma, I don’t need your permission.”

Johannah groans in frustration and messages her temples. “You really think you know this boy so well, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do,” Louis lifts his chin up. “Better than anyone on this plane; certainly better than you and your documents.”

“So you know he was the lead singer in this little band he and some friends made up? _White Eskimo_ , they called themselves. They actually booked several gigs. Impressive,” she informs him dryly. “Oh, look at this,” she shuffles some papers. “You also knew that he tried out for X-Factor the same year you were begging me to let you boys try out? He didn’t make it past boot camp, poor thing.”

He didn’t know that.

“When you were in Harvard, Harry Styles was a few blocks down in _middle_ _school_ ,” she continues. “A few years back you were at the same _Script_ concert, same venue and everything. You know he has a sister?”

“Yes,” Louis nods, “Gemma—older than him by three years, studying design in New York.”

“Right. So did you know that Gemma got pregnant and had a miscarriage last year? Right before she flew off to the Big Apple, too.” Johannah shakes her head pitifully, “I highly doubt Harry knows about that.”

“You can’t actually expect me to know things that even Harry doesn’t,” Louis spits.

“I don’t know if you’re lucky or not, but this boy hardly has one-eighth Italian in him. Just the cut off to qualify. It’s not good enough, Louis,” Johannah presses, “He’s not good enough.”

“Bullshit!” Louis stands and slams his hands down on the table. “Harry is more than good enough. How—how can you love Sophia, but not him? You act like they’re—like Perrie and Sophia are your goddamn daughters, with your head so far up their asses! Can you even breathe up there, can you _see_?”

“They are daughters to me because my sons _love them_ ,” Johannah glares back with identical, blue, hostile eyes.

“That’s not true!” Louis jabs an accusatory finger her way. “You know that’s not true, we all know that’s a load of shit.” He glances over to his brothers, who are frozen in shock on the couch, iPad forgotten on Zayn’s lap. “Are you that blind? Don’t you see how uncomfortable Zayn is with that girl? But he does it to please you, so he won’t let you down. But I don’t care anymore what you or the rest of the fucking world thinks. I’m going to be with Harry whether you like it or not.”

“You are accusing me of being blind, son,” Johannah speaks stiffly in her seat, “but have you gone ignorant yourself? Have you forgotten where the hell we’re going? _Mio dio_ , we’re going to Russia! Have you completely forgotten what they do to people like you in this world— _our_ world?!”

“I already have a plan.”

“You’re not the only one with plans, Louis, don’t be foolish. They’ll wipe you out before you can even wave a rainbow flag.”

“I know what—“

“Do you know what Anne Twist does for a living?”

Louis makes a face. “Harry’s mom? No, not really, he doesn’t talk about her a lot.”

“I didn’t think so,” Johannah clenches her jaw. She grabs a paper from the top of the pile and sends it flying to him. “She’s a cop, Louis! _Lei è un agente di polizia_!”

Oh. Well he did _not_ know that bit of information. But of course, is it so impossible? The one boy who actually captures his interest and keeps him on his toes is the son of a cop. Why the hell not?

“Louis, _cretino_!” Johannah curses, pacing the aisle. “This woman isn’t just a cop, oh, no, she’s a captain detective.” She balls her small hands into tight fists and leashes out her rage through her eyes. “How could you have done this to your own blood? How could you have put us in this position?”

 Louis swallows the lump of burning coal in his throat and lowers his eyes at the paper in his lap. He looks over Anne Twist’s impressive resume, and wow, the woman has done a lot in her years on the force. It’s rare for a woman to get such a high rank in the department, but, after all, it’s Harry’s _mom_ , maybe he shouldn’t be surprised. If the woman is anything like her son, he knows they don’t let obstacles get in their way.

He’s secretly pleased with her achievements until he gets lower in the document—Anne Twist is also a part of the _Department of Homeland Security_ in Massachusetts. This isn’t—this isn’t _good_. It has to be karma or some shit like that, coming back to bite him in the ass for all the wrongdoings he’s committed. He can’t—what if Harry—should he— _fuck_.

The Tomlinson name is well-known in the country and around the world, and there’s no way in hell that Harry’s mother— _a fucking_ _police officer_ —hasn’t heard of them. What if Anne Twist already knows about their relationship? Has she warned Harry? Has Harry told her something about him, has he talked about Johannah to his mother?

It feels like the oxygen in the small aircraft is evaporating like water in the sun, and suddenly it’s hard to breathe. Is this all just a mere coincidence? Or is it—or is it all planned out? There’s no way Harry is working for the police; the boy can’t act or lie to save his life. He refuses to believe everything has been a lie, refuses to even let those toxic theories in his mind. He _trusts_ Harry, even if he shouldn’t; he trusts their relationship, what they have.

The words written on those papers are frightening, and there’s so much he doesn’t know about his boyfriend, but he won’t let that stop him. Anne Twist might be a captain or whatever, but he trusts that Harry is still in the dark about what his family does, and he doesn’t know if that’s a benefit or a downfall.

Louis Tomlinson, the son of the mob queen. Then there’s Harry Styles, the son of a Captain Detective. How _fucking_ cute.

Johannah stops moving and stands in front of her son with her hands at her hips. “You know what to do, Louis. Fix this. Break this off before anyone gets truly fucked.”

“No,” he stands. “Your threats won’t scare me anymore, Ma. I’m not leaving him.”

Johannah raises her voice again, “I will _not_ have you ruin everything your father and I have worked so hard for all these years! That is disrespectful towards everyone; think of your grandfather, your sisters, their legacy. You are mistaken if you think I’m going to let some silly, teenage boy destroy my empire, Louis Tomlinson. If you don’t take care of this immediately, I _will_.”

“Fuck you!” Louis shouts, snatching the paper and throwing it back at his mother’s face. There’s a part of him that doesn’t register what he’s done until the paper is falling down slowly above their heads. There’s another part of him that winces internally when the words leave his mouth, but it’s too late for any of that. He’s never cursed at his mother before.

Time freezes. It all goes in slow motion, the way his eyes close shut, the way Liam and Zayn tense up on the couch. He doesn’t see the movements of his mother, but he certainly feels the cool, metal barrel of a gun against his heated forehead. He hears the gun cock before he ever sees it, but when he does open his eyes, there’s a fancy, white glock with seven, brilliantly shining diamonds on the frame, above his nose, smack dab in the middle of his forehead.

“You will not disrespect me like that,” Johannah harshly snaps. “I am your mother and you are mistaken if you think I will hesitate to pull the trigger the next time around.”

It’s not the first time his mother has held a loaded gun to his flesh. Hell, Louis doubts it’ll be the last. But this time, there’s nothing but pure rage holding the trigger. There’s anger and fervor in his mother’s eyes like never before and he’s _scared_. Twenty-four years old, but when your furious mother, who doubles as Johannah Tomlinson, holds a heavy gun to your skull, you fucking pray.

“You don’t have the balls,” Louis rebuttals, softly-speaking, _just in case_.

“I don’t need balls, Louis. I’m a woman. I’m stronger than any pair of balls on this planet,” she presses the barrel harder. “I have done things that you could never imagine; I have seen things that would bring you on your knees in agony. I have punished and I have killed. I have killed lesser men than you; _bambino_ , but I will not allow disloyalty in my family.”

“Disloyalty,” Louis repeats with a chuckle. “You’re pointing a gun at your son. You can’t possibly get more hypocritical than that.”

“What is all the—oh my _god_ , Ma!” Lottie runs towards them in her slippers, gasping at her mother. “What are you doing? Louis, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he mumbles, gun still pressed securely on his forehead.

“Lottie, please. This is between your stubborn brother and me, don’t worry.”

“Don’t worry?!” Lottie shrieks. “Ma, stop, you’re going to hu—“

“He needs to remember where his loyalties lie,” Johannah booms. “With his family—his _blood_ — or a stranger.”

“You’re not the boss of my personal life,” Louis reminds her, holding back the cringe when his mother presses the barrel of her gun harder against his skin, like she wants to break through the wall of his cranium. “I follow you around like a blind puppy when it comes to the business, but that’s where it ends. I’m not letting you control me any longer.”

“God,” Lottie whines. “You’re both so dramatic. Is this about Harry? Are you going to shoot him?”

“Probably not,” Johannah grins.

“No! None of that,” Lottie chastens, reaching out quickly to snatch the glock from her mother hands, disabling it before anyone can blink. “This is what’s wrong with the world,” she scowls, throwing the unloaded gun at Zayn to catch. “So much violence.”

Johannah looks stunned, glancing down at her empty hands. “Char—“

“No,” Lottie crosses her arms. “Ma, you literally just had a gun pointed at Louis’ face. He’s your _son_ , not the enemy. Anyway, the girls are in the room, waiting to FaceTime you.”

Johannah clucks her tongue and smooths down her pencil skirt, following her daughter without another word. The door slams behind them and Louis lets himself fall into a chair. Everything is moving so quickly, he doesn’t know what to think. His mother just threatened to kill him over Harry. His mother just threatened to _take care of_ Harry if Louis doesn’t….

Is Harry worth dying for?

“Holy _shit_ ,” Zayn stammers, looking at his younger brother with shocked eyes. “Are you okay?” He reaches over to press a thumb to Louis’ forehead, laughing when Louis winces and curses, slapping his hand away.

Louis grabs his phone and lifts the screen to his forehead. Yep, that’s going to bruise. “I’m fine,” he says, leaning back in the leather chair. “It’s not the first time.”

“Thanks for outing us to Ma,” Liam grumbles, mouth turned down in an exaggerated frown. “Now I’m going to have to actually propose to Sophia.”

“ _Testa di cazzo_ ,” Louis rolls his eyes. “She already knew. You think she would be this calm about your incestuous ordeal if she didn’t?”

“It’s not incest if we’re not blood related,” Zayn reminds them under his breath.

“What,” Liam deadpans. “She _knows_? How long—when—why didn’t you tell us! Did _you_ tell her? We trusted you on this, Louis!”

“Because you had no fucking choice,” Louis snaps. “Zayn was blowing you in my elevator! You’re lucky my security team caught it and couldn’t recognize you, Liam, otherwise you would’ve been in shit a long time ago.”

“I don’t know what any of this means,” Liam is distraught. He turns to Zayn, who is quiet, staring at the carpeted floor. “What does this mean? Ma—she _knows_ about us. Z,” he places a shy hand on his lover’s thigh. “What do you think? What should we do?”

“I think,” Zayn speaks lowly, eyes glued to Liam’s large hand. “I think we shouldn’t make any haste decisions.” He flinches when Liam snatches his hand away.

“Haste decisions?” He repeats skeptically. “This is what we’ve been waiting for. We were scared of telling Ma, but she knows—Louis says she knows! I don’t understand, I thought—don’t you want this anymore? Don’t you want to be baes? Isn’t this what we wanted?”

Zayn is quiet and Louis doesn’t comprehend. Even he knows that this—at one point—is what Zayn wanted. Didn’t he say a few hours earlier that he would run away with Liam when the time is right? Zayn is always the one who has to bite his tongue whenever Sophia is around, whenever Johannah preens about her son and his beautiful girlfriend, whenever Liam has to go home with the young woman.  His brother’s relationship is none of his business, but he wants to see them happy, wants them to stop hiding behind fake relationships.

“Just because she knows, like, that doesn’t mean anything, Li,” Zayn speaks softly. “I just think there’s a lot that needs to be talked about first before we start making out at _Fiction_.”

“Yeah, fine,” Liam shrugs.

“You know we’ve got you on this, right, Lou?” Zayn acknowledges him. “Like, if you need anything. With or without Jay, we won’t let you fall.”

“I know,” Louis nods, answering truthfully. He’s never doubted his brothers. Not when Zayn started closing in on himself, not when Liam tried to hide who he really was, spitting slurs that hurt himself more than anyone else. “I’ve got you, too. Both of you. Whenever you’re ready, I won’t let anything hurt you. That’s what being boss is all about, right?”

“Yeah,” Liam laughs. “You’ll be a good boss someday—probably.”

 

They arrive in Moscow as darkness starts to engulf the city. There are two cars, sleek and black, waiting for them on the tarmac of the small, private airport. He hops in the second one with his brothers, refusing to notice his mother, who climbs into the back of the first Benz with Lottie.

“I just want to get this over with,” Louis mutters, leaning his head against the thick, bullet-proof glass of the blacked out window. His bones start to ache and he feels the drowsiness from the long flight enter his body quickly. He was never good with jet lag.

“Missing Harry already, are you?” Liam wiggles his thick brows.

“Not all of us have our boyfriends to fight crime with,” he snaps with no heat. He’s too tired for his eldest brother’s shit.

“I don’t think that’s what we do, fight crime, I mean,” Liam replies thoughtfully. “We’re not superheroes, but we’re not really villains…”

“Calling him your boyfriend now?” Zayn asks lightly.

Louis groans against the window, blindly flipping off the laughing duo besides him as he closes his eyes. They whizz through the city and its bright lights, before stopping in front of a guarded, tall, red-brick townhouse. They nod at the driver as they retrieve their bags from the trunk, shuffling into the house.

The townhouse is modern and cold, a complete 180 from the Tomlinson Estate outside of Chi-town. It’s definitely not Louis’ favorite place out of all their spots around the globe; he doesn’t really have a temperate spot for Russia in his bitter heart, either. He’s never taken a liking to the old country. It probably has something to do with the fact that he could get killed by one of Russia’s scum if he looks at a male the ‘wrong’ way.

He brushes past his brothers by the foyer, taking his bag into the small elevator and up the fourth floor, where his usual room lies. The room is spacey, clean and bare, but he already knows he has a long night ahead of him. The bed is firm, just like he likes it, and the silk sheets are smooth against his bare chest, but it feels odd, incorrect, even. What he wouldn’t give to charter a jet back home and sneak into Harry’s room and just fall asleep with his arms around his boy.

When the sun rises a few hours later, Louis is already up and showered, dressed to the nines in a double breasted suit and jet-black skinnies. His hair is done up in a quiff and he’s freshly shaven. He looks rather good, if he’s honest.

There’s movements downstairs in the kitchen, and his stomach grumbles as he gets hit by a waft of bacon. Lottie is calmly drinking her tea on a stool, scrolling through her phone, and Johannah is standing at the stove, flipping buttermilk pancakes.

Lottie raises her brows in greeting and nods over to the kettle on the stove. “Water’s still warm if you want some tea.”

“Thanks,” Louis nods, grabbing a plain black mug from a cabinet and dragging himself towards the stove to pour out some water, silent. It’s an hour later of awkward silence and clinks of spoons against the china that Liam and Zayn finally come down, big, suspicious grins grazing their faces. They’re dressed similar to him, black from head to toe with the exception of Liam’s odd, cheetah-print shirt. It looks a bit off on him, but Louis can see Harry wearing it gracefully—just like he wears his leopard-printed boots and his animal-print Saint Laurent coat and—and he _misses_ Harry…

“Good morning family!” Liam greets them happily. Zayn goes straight to the coffee pot. “What are the plans for today?”

Johannah presses a kiss to Zayn’s sharp cheek as she passes by, setting another heap of pancakes on the island. “We’ve got thieves to take care of, boys.”

Liam sighs, climbing onto the empty stool besides Louis. “People keep fucking us over—oh, sorry Ma—but they don’t learn. Does Makar really think he’s going to get away with this?”

“He’s a clown,” Johannah says. “I won’t have that imbecile’s stupidity looming over my company. We completed with our end of the deal, we gave him plenty time, and he hasn’t followed through. Plus, the bastard lied to me.”

“Sooo…,” Zayn drawls. “Does that mean—?”

“After I’m done with him, you boys can do your part.”

“Do I really have to stay locked up in here?” Lottie frowns, pouting at her mother. “I won’t be gone long, I’ll be back before you guys return, and I’ll have Tom and Aaron follow me into every store!”

“Absolutely not,” Johannah denies her request firmly. She leaves no room for arguing. “When I come back, maybe we can hit a mall or two, but that’s it. You will not be leaving this house without my permission, understood?”

" _Hit a mall or two_?" Lottie sulks but nods nonetheless. She swears under her breath when Louis pats her head before slipping out the door. Outside, Johannah has the Benz up and running, and Liam and Zayn are quick to jump into the back, stretching their limbs out and leaving no space for Louis. He rolls his eyes and sits up front, next to his mother.

After minutes of flitting through cars in the city, Johannah turns to him. “I hope you were listening at breakfast this morning, Louis.”

“I wasn’t distracted by anything or anyone, if that’s what you’re implying.” He’s still pissed about the gun fiasco, but he tries to let it go, knows that he’ll never get an apology out of his mother. That’s one thing about them both: they don’t apologize. They’re too alike in many ways, something Louis resents, like the fact they’re as stubborn as mules, or how they both believe they’re always in the right.

Besides the hush-hush whispers and laughs emitting from the backseat, the ride is mostly silent as they sit through traffic and dart around cars. They pass parks with bare trees and buildings older than the time itself, beautiful with bright colors and strong structure. But soon, those lively buildings turn into torn-down homes and empty car lots, and the parks turn into warehouses. They’re now in the ugly part of Moscow, dirty and gray, crawling with people the Tomlinson’s own and despise.

When Johannah parks the car in an empty garage by a crumbling warehouse and pulls her usual, black leather gloves, the trio does the same. It’s still early, but crime and filth never stop, doesn’t have a clock.

“Remember,” she fixes her hair so it’s up in a tight knot, “no one leaves this warehouse alive.”

They double check their weapons and load up on extra cartridges. They cross the street silently, keeping their eyes out for anything off, something that may have alerted the warehouse of their presence, but all is calm. Louis notices the security cameras before anyone else, and catches his mother’s eyes, who nods.

They follow Johannah around the back to a plain, noncommittal door. They can hear commotion on the other side, heavy footsteps and muffled yelling. Their presence is known.

“Liam, please, if you’d do the honors.” Johannah steps aside from the door.

Liam nods and takes the gun from his waistband, shooting the heavy lock. The piece of steel falls of easily and Liam lifts his foot up, kicking the door once, twice with his bulky, steel-toed boots before the piece of wood breaks in, hardly hanging of its’ hinges. They go around the damage and into the lofty warehouse, were people of both sexes are running around like chickens with their heads cut off.

It gives Louis some sort of pleasure seeing how scared people become because of his presence. It reminds him how much power they truly have, corrupted kings, in a way. It’s nice, sometimes.

Young teenage boys and girls run back and forth in the nude, afraid of the intruders, not knowing what to do or where to hide, or if they _should_ hide. Makar’s slow men and their big, clumsy hands are fumbling with the ammunition, looking up with frightedeyes. Makar, the man of the hour, is nowhere to be seen. It’d be naïve to not assume the young man was watching their arrival through the security footage.

Makar is young, perhaps only a few years older than Liam, but after this Louis knows he won’t see another year. That’s what happens when you lie to the Tomlinson’s and try to make a fool out of Johannah Tomlinson. The consequences are not very pretty. When Johannah let Makar borrow five million five years ago, they signed on a time limit. The five years are up and Makar does something with the money that Johannah finds unforgivable: human trafficking.

The exploiting of people is the biggest problem here. Another problem is that the Russian man is incredibly over-due on the money. The man has been making double the original amount since the beginning, so Louis finds it preposterous that they haven’t received their small millions.

The warehouse is chaos and Louis knows his mother’s already small amount of patience is running thin. The woman taps her shiny boot against the dirty floor in exasperation before pulling her gun—the same white gun with the damn diamonds—out from underneath her jacket and shooting at the air trice, immediately stopping the screaming, everyone freezing in their place.

She narrows her eyes. “Makar!” she shouts, her strong voice echoing through the lofty space. “ _Mudak_! Makar, come out, come out wherever you are, _doelboeb_.”

“Ah, Johannah and her boys,” a short, stocky man in a gaudy white suit greets them with gray, rotting teeth. “ _Privet_ , it’s so nice to see you again,” Taras, Makar’s older brother, speaks calmly in a thick accent, like he’s not about to die in a few minutes.

Johannah sighs, checking the time on her rose gold Rolex. “Get me Makar right now,” she orders.

“My brother, you say?”

“Who else?” Johannah narrows her eyes, tilting her head. “I don’t like to repeat myself, Taras, so run along and do as your told.”

Taras’ nasty smile falls. “He’s not here right now, as you can see.” He waves his hands at their on looking crowd and laughs. “May I help you with something, _krasavitsa_?”

Johannah joins in his laughter, laughing even as she blows a hole to the fat man’s kneecap. The man falls to the ground in agony, cursing in rapid Russian, clutching at his knee as crimson starts oozing out, tainting his white slacks.

“Now can someone tell me where Makar is, or do I have to find him myself!” Johannah shouts, pointing her gun at the naked girls cowering behind stocked shelves. Makar’s men make no moves towards Johannah, but even if one attempts at something, Louis would get there first.

There are loud footsteps behind them, and the family turns around prepared, guns cocked. The man in question climbs down the stairs of the loft in a leisurely pace, a twisted smile on his fair features. “Johannah,” he drawls smoothly. “You always know how to make an entrance, don’t you? Looking beautiful as always. And ah, I see you’ve brought those handsome boys of yours.”

“Makar,” Johannah nods, lowering her gun and clasping her hands behind her back. “I don’t take you for a complete idiot, you must know why I’m here.”

“Of course,” Makar agrees, a lock of golden hair falling into his eyes. He turns to see a small boy trailing behind him, sniping at him before nodding to a corner. “Let us sit in ease,” he says, scratching at his neck as a duo of burly men set a wooden table in the middle of the room, two industrial chairs at each end.

Louis can’t take his eyes off the boy dressed in rags, surely pale skin littered with dirt and mauve marks. Is he Makar’s slave? His sex toy? The boy looks utterly terrified, shaking in his dirty, white sneakers. His eyes are bright blue and wide, terribly afraid as he stands behind his master at the table.

“So,” Makar starts, snapping Louis’ eyes away from the blond boy with the dark roots. Makar crosses his legs defensively, sneering at Johannah. “What would you like to discuss today? Something tells me you’ve not come for tea and gossip about Putin.”

“No,” Johannah gives him her infamous Mona Lisa smile. “I’ve been very patient with you, unrightfully so, Makar. That being said, my endurance in this situation has run out and I’m here for my money.”

Makar hums. “Right…How long has it been? Four, five years? Gosh, that’s such a long time ago.”

“Indeed. Long enough to cough those five million up, wouldn’t you agree?”

Makar laughs and turns to his slave. “Niall, please, some of my black tea.” The boy nods and hastily walks to a small kitchenette at the end of the room, and his owner is pleased, turning back to the woman in front of him. “I saw those five million as more of a, how do you say… _podarok_?”

Johannah answers composedly, “A gift?” She lifts a petite hand out and Louis is quick to pull the folder from the inside of his jacket and placing it in her grip. She spreads the documents out on the cherry oak table, pushing over a thick paper. “That right there is the contract you signed—five million in five years. I don’t believe in _gifts_.”

Makar sighs as the blond boy brings over a warm mug, snatching it out of trembling hands. “Johannah, _pozhaluysta_ , please, why waste anymore time? I’ve got a whorehouse to run and I’m certain you’ve got your own things. I’ll pay you right now.”

Johannah taps her long fingernails against the rugged surface of the table. “Intriguing, but no thank you. Five million can’t buy much these days, but blood always pays off debt.”

“Oh, Johannah, is that really necessary?”

“You made me look like a fool,” she thunders. “What would people say if they knew I had let you live with a broken promise? Not very like me, is it?”

Makar grips his tea. “I didn’t take you to be the type of woman who cares about other people’s opinions. Hmm, didn’t know that about you, always so confident.”

“In actuality, you don’t know anything about me. That’s the beautiful part of this business; you don’t really get to know people, their actions speak louder than any words, than any amount in a Swiss bank account.”

It’s silent again as the Russian man clenches his jaw. His brother screams out in anguish, still clutching onto his ripped knee, rolling around in a pile of his own sick blood. The men who were fumbling with the shotguns are now holding them steadily, waiting for a command. Louis swallows the small burst of panic and stands up straighter, feet apart, finger confident on the trigger.

“But thus,” Johannah smiles, “you are right in one sense: I don’t like wasting my precious time. Let’s be honest now—I’m not here for your money; I could care less about it. It’s your life that I want, dear, it’s worth so much more to me now.” She glances around the dirty warehouse with an upturned nose, “Once you’re dead, everything of yours will become mine, and that’s worth more than a measly five million.”

Makar cackles manically. “You think you’re so smart, so—so strong, Tomlinson. You think you can take what’s mine and get away with it? You think you will breathe?” He slams his mug down, hot tea sloshing onto the table. “This isn’t your jurisdiction!”

“It became mine when my millions entered this country.”

“Afon,” Makar swallows thickly. “Afon—this is his territory, everything is under his control. He’s not going to take too kindly to you ripping that away from him and his people. People are talking, Johannah, and no one is happy with your dominance.”

“People always seem to have something to say, don’t they?” 

“Everyone knows you have too much power. You can’t rule this forever.”

“Is that so?”

“The Mexicans, the Chinese,” he continues. “Shaer, the Lucases, the Aglis…No one is happy with how things are being run—by you and your boys—and shit is going to get serious, and dangerous, very soon for you.”

Johannah rolls her eyes at that and Louis follows suit. “Alexei Lucas has hated my guts from the moment I married Felice. It got worse when I married Adamo, and now that I’m on top, he despises me.”

Makar stares down at his tea before glancing up. “No one really cares about _you_ , Johannah. They know your time is almost up.” His eyes shift to Louis, standing behind his mother, “You're not who Alexei is worried about.”

Johannah visibly stiffens in her seat. “Why, of course. If Alexei Lucas feels the need to bash the Tomlinson name everywhere he goes and threatens my family, well—then let him. Let him get some light in his sad, miserable life. Chatting with you has been lovely, as always, but that’s not why I’m here.”

“I don’t have the mo—“

“I’m going to ignore your blasphemous lies.”

Makar nods once and snaps his fingers, and in an instant there are bullets through the air.

“Such a pity,” Johannah shakes her head, standing. “I’m sorry this is how things had to turn out.”

It’s a volcanic eruption of bullets and cries and Louis wastes no time ducking behind a large, orange train car. He peels of his suit and throws it to the side, pushing up the sleeves to his black button up. When he pops out from behind the boxcar, it’s a bloodbath. There is spilt blood on the grimy floors, thick, Russian guards lifeless on the cold, hard ground. His mother is still standing, but she’s above Makar this time, her beautiful, white gun pressed against his temple—what an awful feeling.

He ducks behind the car again, shooting at bodyguards before they can even blink or cry out. The men drop dead like flies, and there’s so much  chaos and slippery blood, but he focuses on what’s at hand. His mind is set on killing the enemy, and soon enough the body counts start increasing.

He exchanges the magazine of his gun quickly, aiming at the guards on the second floor. He shoots them down before they’re able to pull the trigger at his mother. Louis snorts, _how about that loyalty_? He’s moving quickly between empty train cars when he feels a flash of hot, burning white pain in his ankle.

Behind him is a man around his age, jerking a switchblade into his skin. He tries kicking him off, but that only results in a piercing burning of his ankle, so he takes the butt of his gun, whipping it down on the angry man’s skull, who only whines and presses down further. Louis groans out in pain, hitting him harder, with more force, until a deadly crack echoes in his ears and the man’s grip loosens completely.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Louis groans as he pulls the knife out. There’s blood dripping down into his brogues and more gunshots around him, but the side of his ankle is throbbing agitatedly, the flame shooting up and down his leg. Thankfully, the puncture wound isn’t as deep as he had thought, but it still hurts like a bitch.

“You alright?” Liam asks from above him with worry, his whole face scrunching up. He leans down and takes Louis’ second gun from his belt, lifting Louis up on his feet by the armpits.

Louis curses lowly as he tries to step with his injured foot, but he shakes it off. Pain is nothing, pain will not devour him. He’s breathing heavily as he follows Liam from behind the boxcars and into the main, evacuated area. There are bodies of both men and women on the floor, their blood mixing to create a smudgy puddle underneath them.

“Is everything okay?” Zayn asks when his eyes fall on them, rapidly joining Liam’s side. “Is that all of them, are we done?”

“I think so,” Liam answers, kicking a lifeless body just to be sure. They wordlessly check the rest of the warehouse for stranglers, finding a few that they don’t hesitate to get rid of.

Louis spots his mother standing pleasantly over the Markar’s inert corpse, a shattered _The Beatles_ mug by his body. While Johannah’s bun is loose and there are fallen tendrils framing her face, she doesn’t have a speck of blood or grim her clothes; all pristine like she never left the house in the morning.

“Boys, there you are,” Johannah smiles in satisfaction. “Is everyone okay?”

Liam is quick to rat him out, “Louis got hurt.”

Johannah’s eyes widen and she looks over at Louis before frowning at his bleeding ankle. She bends down and unwraps the gray, cashmere Valentino scarf Dan got her for Christmas, quickly wrapping it around the injury. “It doesn’t look too deep, but we’ve got to make sure the bleeding stops. When we get back to the townhouse remind me to clean it up with some alcohol and give you paracetamol for the pain.”

“Thank you,” Louis mumbles.

“Now, let’s getting going before the cops get here,” Johannah orders, walking around the dead bodies and checking the badges on the guards. “I think we need to start cleanup immediately.”

Zayn snorts, “They’ve been tracking Markar since the very beginning; they’ll probably give you an award, Ma.”

Johannah laughs lightly, “Perhaps that would be the case. I rather not risk us.”

Liam returns with a large can of kerosene in his grip. He awaits no instructions, pouring the substance on every surface. Louis watches in confusion as his brother stops, leaning in closer in between two train cars, furrows his thick brows, and drops the can. “Hey—!”

Quick like lightning, all Louis sees is a flash of pale and white, Jordan knock-offs, running away from them to the other end of the warehouse. Louis is quick with his reflexes, grabbing his gun from the table he’s leaning against, shooting at the boy, but the blond is fast on his feet, dodging behind a metal trashcan.

“Stop!” Zayn chases after him. He grabs him, gripping tightly to the quivering boy’s ratty tee, pulling him towards Johannah. He drops the slave at her feet, the boy instantly bowing his head and sobbing.

“ _Pozhaluysta, ne_! _YA sdelayu vse_!” the boy pleads, screams, his small body shaking. He speaks Russian well, but he doesn’t seem to have the native accent like Makar did.

“What’s your name?” Johannah asks softly.

“N-Niall—‘m n-name is Niall,” the boy answers in a heavy Irish accent, his head still bowed down.

 Johannah reaches down and pulls the boy’s chin up, who immediately locks his gaze elsewhere. “How old are you, Niall?”

“I-I’m nineteen, I t-think. Nineteen, ma’am.”

“You think?” Zayn asks.

Niall nods frantically. “I-I don’t r-remember, sir.”

“Where are you from? What are you doing here?” Liam questions.

“I-I don’t k-know. I can’t r-remember.”

“He sounds Irish to me,” Liam shrugs.

Johannah lets go of Niall’s chin when his tears start soaking her gloves. The boy instantly falls to the ground in a small huddle, thin arms protecting his head. “Where is your family?”

“ _Ser Makar_ ,” Niall replies, his body still quavering. His shirt rides up to reveal a small sliver of skin and Louis frowns as he sees big, bold, blue and violet bruises. Poor boy.

Johannah breathes out heavily and nods at her boys. “Niall, come along, follow me.” Moments pass as she leaves the warehouse, but Niall stays glued to floor in his one-man huddle.

“Bro, aren’t you coming?” Zayn asks, looking down at him with a deep frown.

Niall peeks out from underneath his arms, his brilliant blue eyes wet with unshed tears. “N-no, no. _Ser Makar_ ,” he whispers, “he will p-punish me. He will k-kill me!”

Liam sighs and drags Makar’s body towards the boy. “This asshole will be swimming with the fish tonight, kid. You’ve got nothing to worry ‘bout.”

“No, no—no,” Niall repeats in hysteria. He shakes his head anxiously, “I can’t!”

Louis shrugs and tosses his BIC lighter at Liam. “Just leave him,” he says in nonchalance, knowing the kid will have no where to run once the warehouse starts crumbling. He limps towards the exit, his brothers hot on his trail. Outside, Zayn grabs his pack of cigs, pulling one out for Liam to light, before he's flicking it at the warehouse.

The building catches in flames easily, plastic parts melting into black smoke. They wait, watching it, until Niall is running out of the warehouse, his thin, dirty tee covering his nose. He follows them wordlessly, but hesitates before getting in the car.

They’re back at the townhouse twenty minutes later. Niall starts trembling again, refusing to leave the car, so Liam pops him over his shoulder, carry him into the house. Inside, Lottie is lying upside down on the couch, her sock-clad feet happily planted on the beige walls as a rom-com plays on the flat screen. She twists around and stands as they come into the living room.

“Finally! Ma, can we go shopping now? One of the malls around here has a Céline and a Versace. I’m thinking first we can—who the hell is _this_?” Lottie narrows her eyes at the dirty boy Liam just dropped from his shoulder.

“Lottie meet Niall,” Johannah says, shrugging off her coat. “He was one of Makar’s slaves.”

“Okay, so? You just deiced to keep him or what?” Lottie crosses her arms over her chest and crinkles her nose, eyeing the new boy up and down with suspicion.

“Another one for Ma’s collection,” Louis rolls his eyes.

“Dick!” Zayn laughs, punching him in the arm.

“Both of you quiet,” Johannah orders, coming back from the kitchen with sturdy, black garbage bag in her hands. “Now, you all know the rules. I don’t want a speckle of blood or residue in this house. Strip.”

“And that’s my cue,” Lottie reaches for her phone.

“No, _stella_ , wait!” Johannah grabs her elbow. “I need you to go upstairs and look for something that will fit Niall. Look through Zayn and Louis’ things, please.”

“But Ma,” Liam pouts, rubbing the fabric of his shirt in distress. “Do we really have to do this? If I had known, I would’ve never worn my new, funky shirt.”

“Come on, _caro_ , rules are rules,” she holds the bag open.

Louis shrugs and strips down. He’ll miss his new double-breasted jacket—he didn’t even get to show it off to Harry, who would’ve _loved_ it. He can always buy another one. He turns to Niall, who is cowering in a corner, arms wrapped defensively around himself. “Get naked, Niall.”

“I—do-do I have to?” Niall asks painfully shy, his cheeks flushing greatly. “I-I don’t w-want to.”

“I’ve got the clothes!” Lottie bounds back down the stairs, waving articles of clothing in her hands. “I’ve got Lou’s jeans and one of Zayn’s shirts. PSA: First and last time I will ever search through anyone’s luggage.” She turns to Zayn and Liam with judging eyes—“I don’t even want to know _why_ you have _that_ in your suitcases. You have girlfriends!”

Zayn’s face loses all its color while Liam chokes on air, and Louis might find it to be the most hilarious thing he’s seen in his short life.

Johannah ignores them and takes Niall by the hand, “Come on, I’ll help you,” she promises, leading him out of the room. “Zayn! Please burn the clothes, thank you!”

“Did Ma really have to bring him back here?” Lottie asks once their mother is out of hearing range, plopping back down on the couch. “Don’t you think we’ve got enough to deal with?”

“He didn’t, like, do anything, Lots,” Zayn shrugs, tying the bag close. “Just a kid who was enslaved by some dickhead exploiter; he’s got problems and shit.”

“So this is where Ma comes in and tries to fix him,” the blonde teenager deadpans.

“Maybe he’ll be the perfect son she’s always wanted,” Liam spews sarcastically, but maybe the truth isn’t so far away in his words, Louis thinks.

Louis leaves his siblings in the living room, going up in the elevator until it stops at the final floor. In his room, he kicks off his boxers and steps into the glass shower, turning the heat on as high as he can take it. He feels his muscles relax instantly, hardly recognizes the stinging coming from his tattered ankle.

When he’s back in bed, engulfed by his silk sheets, he picks up his abandoned phone and calls Harry, needing to hear the sound of his boyfriend’s deep melody in order to go to sleep—what the hell has happened to him? He hardly even cares that he’s as whipped as whip cream.

“ _’Ello_?” Harry answers groggily. Louis curses at himself; how could he forget the time difference?

“Hi, baby,” he speaks, instantly calm.

“ _Louis_!” Harry shrieks and laughs at himself. “ _I’ve missed you_!”

Louis can almost see Harry’s face light up, but he can absolutely hear it through his sleep-ridden voice. “I’ve missed you, too,” he admits.

“ _How’s Russia? Exciting? Fun?_ ”

“Incredibly cold—kinda boring.”

“ _Don’t lie to me_ ,” Harry giggles. “ _I know you’ve been causing havoc with your brothers. Tell me everything. What did you do today?_ ”

“Oh, you know,” Louis chuckles. “Same old shit, but a different day.”

 


	16. Diamonds and Bruises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting closer to where we left off! Yay! :D Thanks for reading! 
> 
> Disclaimer: The plot and characters aren't mine. You can read the OG fic at fanfiction.net under There Will Be Blood by Johnnyboy7. There will be spoilers, obviously. One Direction isn't mine either. I own nothing. :(

* * *

 

_“Love is that condition in which the happiness of another person is essential to your own.”  ― Robert A. Heinlein, Stranger in a Strange Land_

 

There’s singing. Somehow, in the deep, rainbow abyss of his dreams, loud singing cuts through, interrupting the quiet serenity of Harry’s sleep. The noise is loud and he groans, snuggling deeper into his bed. Why doesn’t anyone ever let him sleep? If it’s not Perrie threatening to tear his door down, it’s Britney— _intoxicate me now, with your lovin' now—I think I'm ready now…I think I'm ready now._

He shoots up then, rubbing the sleep away from his eyes, squinting at his illuminated phone. Britney’s Toxic stops suddenly and Harry holds his breath, grinning when the music starts up again. He wipes the drool from his chin and answers before the pop icon can continue her verse. “Louis?” he breathes out, sleep and restlessness evident in his voice.

“H-Harry?” a raspy voice replies and Harry feels his stomach drop with anticipation. “Harry! Oh—wow, Harry, wow, I miss  _you_!”

The younger boy laughs lightly, peeling the covers off his legs. “Lou, you alright?”

“Princess, I—,” Louis hiccups and then laughs at himself, “I’m so okay. I’m so happy—happy days! I did it! For me _and_ you!”

Harry’s brows furrow. He’s so thrilled to be hearing from his love, even if it’s only been a few days—even if it’s currently three in the morning. Louis is clearly drunk, but Harry has no clue what he’s on about. “Lou, what did you do? What did you do for us?”

“Us,” Louis sighs on the other end. “ _Us_ —what a beautiful word, beautiful, beautiful,” he slurs. “I fought, Harry. I-I fought for me and you, and for Zaynie and Li, and—wow. I’m just wondering now. Will this come back to me? Who knows? Maybe—maybe not.”

“Lou.” Harry plops back on his pillows. “You’re really drunk, babe. What do you mean you fought for us? And your brothers, too?” He’s cautious to bring up the brothers, especially after the bizarre tidbit Louis spilled, quickly claiming Liam and Zayn were _fucking._ He doesn’t know what that means, doesn’t know if he even wants to.

It’s been hard on Harry, being so far from Louis. The trip was extended three more days, making it a whole week without seeing him, or touching him, or just _being_ with him. It makes him feel a bit, well—pathetic, missing someone as much as he misses Louis, craves him. He’s gotten so used to his presence and his ambient; everything feels off without him there.

He hasn’t had _too_ much time to pine over his boyfriend, especially not with mid-terms and exams and Perrie’s ass suffocating him. Perrie even woke him bright and early one Sunday to go to Mass with Louis’ sisters, brunch afterwards, and Harry was surprised at how much fun he had with the younger Tomlinson girls and Sophia. Maybe it was the fact that Johannah wasn’t around that had him feeling relaxed, maybe not, but it was nice, especially hearing about what a sweet boy Louis was when he was younger.

All he knows now is that Louis will be back tomorrow night, and that’s all he’s looking forward to. Maybe it makes him wretched, considering he’s had boyfriends before who have gone away for days, too, and he’s never felt like he was _empty._ That’s how it’s been without Lou, that’s how he’s been—vacant.

“We fought!” Louis fucking _giggles_ , and Harry wishes he could’ve caught the sound on tape. “We fought—and everything is okay now, H-Harry, I _promise._ ”

“You fought?” Harry repeats nervously. “Lou, who did you fight? _Why_ did you fight?”

“I-I had toooo,” the older man slurs. “I’ll do any-anything to keep you safe.”

Harry gasps, fisting the fabric of his duvet. “Louis! You shouldn’t—you don’t have to fucking fight anyone over me! I’m safe, okay, I’m perfectly okay.” He doesn’t like the image that pops into his brain, burning in his skull—Louis getting _hit_ and beaten, his smooth, tan skin bruised, all because of Harry. No, no, that’s so wrong.

“We went to—to an underground thing,” Louis explains drunkenly. “I had to prove myself—and I did, Harry, I-I did, for me and you. For _us_ —what a nice word. Li is really good at boxing, and so is Zayn, of course. I’m good, too, Harry, happy.”

“Louis, I—?” Harry stops himself. His heart is racing, beating hard against his chest, he’s sure it’ll leave a mark. It’s his mind, however, that acts as though it’s a contestant in the Indy500. Louis hasn’t said  _why_ he fought someone, and even drunk, he knows the man isn’t stupid or loose-lipped. Harry just—he doesn’t understand, can’t make sense of any of Louis’ ramblings. What does he mean, saying he fought for _them_ , for Harry’s safety?

“Just because I’m g-gay, doesn’t mean I-I can’t fight!” Louis snaps on the other end of the phone. “I can take care of what’s  _mine_!”

“I didn’t say that.” Harry is shocked, replying slowly. “I didn’t—I would never say that, Lou.”

“I know, I know.”

“Louis, babe.” Harry sighs, folding a hand over his eyes. “Are you safe?”

“’Course! H, guess what?”

“What, Lou?”

“I miss you, baby cakes.”

Harry grinds wildly. “Yeah? I miss you, too, sweet cheeks. So much. How much have you had to drink tonight, huh?”

“Dunno!” Louis states happily. Harry can almost see his bright smile and unbothered shrug.

“But you’re feeling okay? Do you hurt?” Harry presses. “Are you tired?”

“N-nope!” Louis laughs loudly.  “I’m so fucking happy, so. I’ve been up all night, too, all night!”

Besides the obvious drunk slur to his tone, Louis sounds almost—well, he sounds happy, in a way. His voice is light and his words are carefree and not thought out, and sure, that comes with the alcohol consumption, but it’s so much different in a way Harry can’t exactly explain. He sounds a bit loose, like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders. Maybe Harry is wrong, maybe Louis is just a fun, bubbly drunk, but maybe it’s something else.

Harry’s about to speak when he hears some shuffling and Zayn’s laughter in the background; someone else calls out to Louis, mumbling incoherently. “Lou, where are you?”

“Tattoo parlor!” Louis replies with clear excitement. “Me and Zaynie are g-gonna get some new shit. It’s gonna be sick! Oh, Harry, you should, too!”

Harry chuckles. “Maybe, yeah. But here, in Chicago, not in Russia, okay? Are you sure you want to get something while you’re drunk? You might regret it in the morning.”

“No!” Louis immediately sounds off put. “I would never regret this," he asserts. 

“I know you said you aren’t tired, but maybe a nap would be good for you.”

“That’s fucking bonkers,  _Harry_. So much to d-do, so much to see! _Carpe diem_!”

“Should I be worried or—?”

“No!” Louis scoffs before laughing. “Are _you_ behaving, princess? You bein’ good?”

“Yes, of course, I.” Harry swallows tightly. “I promised I was going to be good, I—I haven’t broken it.”

“Good. I, on the other hand, had to fuc-fucking _jerk off,_ like some—some boy. My dick misses you, baby.”

Before Harry can even start getting excited over the possibility of phone sex, Louis laughs abruptly again and slurs his apologies, saying he has to go. He’s up next, apparently. Harry doesn’t want to hang up—like, ever—but he’s comforted by the fact his plausibly crazy boyfriend will be home in less than twenty-four hours, hopefully snuggled by his side, where he rightfully belongs. He still frowns when the line clicks dead after a hasty _bye, princess_ from Louis.

He locks his phone and settles back in his bed, pulling the covers over his body. He was so, so tempted to say it. Would it have been so bad if he had said _I love you_ to Louis before hanging up? What would’ve Louis said? Maybe he wouldn’t have remembered it tomorrow, anyway. Maybe it’s for the best Harry didn’t say anything other than goodbye.

It’s just—he really fucking wants to say it! He loves Louis. He loves him in a way Harry himself can’t even comprehend—he’s never felt like this before, not with anyone, so it’s unbelievably puzzling. He feels as though he could burst, like the love could swallow him up, like the love he has for Louis is the Pacific and Harry is just a measly grain of sand. It outweighs him and contorts him, and fucking scares him.

He knows Louis doesn’t feel the same. He can’t help but feel like Louis is holding something back from him, always a slight sliver of hesitance in his words these last few days. Something’s changed, and while it’s not horrible and it doesn’t necessarily worry Harry, it bothers him slightly. The older man said that he doesn’t like it complicated, that they should keep it simple. But— _fuck_ —love is never, ever simple, no.

He contemplates texting Gemma for some advice, maybe hear what she has to say about Louis’ slightly peculiar attitude, but decides against it. If Gemma knows about Louis, that means his mother will know about him, too, and there’s no way in hell Harry dating an older man is acceptable in the eyes of his mother. Besides, that’s _another_ thing Louis is being odd about: Harry's parents. Out of the blue, Louis started questioning Harry about Anne, and perhaps it’s normal behavior as his new boyfriend, but it all sure sounds extra to Harry.

“Whatever,” he breathes out to the empty room. He closes his eyes and cuddles up with his large, white teddy bear—a last minute gift from Louis, so that he’d have someone to _cuddle at night while I’m gone_ —and goes back to sleep, his mind filled with brilliant sapphire eyes and pink, crooked grins.

 

He doesn’t wake up again until before noon. His mid-terms are over with and he’s free to do as he pleases with the rest of the week. He’s thinking about doing a hot-oil treatment on his hair—so it’s extra soft, extra silky, and extra bouncy for his boyfriend’s return—shave, and maybe paint his nails with that beautiful metallic gold he just picked up, that (according to _Harper’s Bazaar_ ) is perfect for fall, when his phone lights up.

_Ayyyy meet up for lunch in 20? Starbucks by my dorm!_

_You're buying_ , he replies. 

Fifteen minutes later, he’s walking through the Starbucks, thankful for the warmth, unwrapping the knit scarf from his neck. He spots Perrie right away, her bright locks sitting by a window in the corner, but he’s surprised to see Sophia in front of her.  _This ought to be interesting_ , he thinks.

“Harry!” Perrie grins, moving her handbag from the chair to make way for him. “You’re just on time.”

“Hi," he greets. “Sophia, it’s nice to see you again.”

“You, too,” the young woman replies. 

“I was just telling Soph that we should go out tonight to celebrate being done with mid-terms and all that.”

“I don’t know…” Harry shrugs. “Maybe that isn’t such a good idea.”

Sophia smiles at him pitifully. “Because you’re only eighteen?”

“Uh, no.” Harry's mouth turns downwards, fingers tapping against the tabletop. “It just never turns out a pleasant experience. Besides, Louis will be home soon and I have a feeling he’s going to need me.”

“Oh, yeah?” Perrie wiggles her thick eyebrows in suggestion. “Don’t be afraid to go into detail.”

Harry knocks their shoulders playfully. “Not like that! With how Louis was talking, I’m afraid he’s going to be a bit more than bruised. I can’t believe they would be so reckless.” Sophia and Perrie both look at him in confusion and uneasiness settles in Harry. “You know, because of the fight?”

“What fight?”

“Harry, what are you talking about?”

Harry takes a brown, paper napkin from its holder and starts to tear it up. Was he not supposed to say anything? Why don’t Perrie or Sophia, Zayn and Liam’s girlfriends, not know? “The fight? They went to this underground club-type-thing last night, from what Lou was telling me. He was really drunk, though, so maybe—“

“You’ve been talking to Louis?” Sophia questions, taken aback.

“Yes?” Harry drawls. “He calls me every night.”

“Oh.” Sophia looks down at her chai tea. “I haven’t heard from Liam since the day they landed in Moscow. I’ve tried calling him, but he has only texted claiming he was too busy to talk.”

“Same here.” Perrie purses her lips. “Anyway.” She shrugs it off, standing, her chair screeching loudly against the tile floor. “Har, do you know what you want? The usual?”

“Yes, please.” He smiles before his friend nods, heading up to the counter.

“Louis is so gone for you,” Sophia exclaims, her eyes big and expressive. “We were all shocked when we found out he had someone, but you’re so perfect for him. He looks at you like—I don’t know, but it’s special. Liam sure has never looked at me like that.” She 

Harry stammers, blushing. “Thank you.”

“Do you know I met Louis first? When I first started working for Jay, I met him first, not Liam. He was such a gentlemen, feisty, but a nice guy.”

“Oh?” Harry reaches out for a sip of Perrie’s frappe.

“I blew him in his office.”

“’ou wha—!” Harry starts to choke, ice lodging awkwardly in his throat. He coughs loudly, pounding his chest with a closed fist. “You did what?” He rasps out.

Sophia looks at him guiltily. “It was such a long time ago, Harry, it meant nothing. It was dumb, but I—I thought it would help my career some. I don’t know what I was thinking! Liam doesn’t know of course, but I don’t think he would care much…”

Harry swallows thickly, squeezing his eyes shut to relieve his mind of that image. Sophia on her knees, her lips wrapped around Louis, Louis with his head thrown back. Did he make the same noises he makes with Harry? Did he fist his hands in her hair, did he— _no!_ He can’t keep thinking about that. It was a long time ago, like Sophia said.

He needs to change the subject right now and forget this conversation ever happened. “Are you—I know it’s not my place, but are you and Liam alright?”

Sophia plays with her straw. “No, I don’t think so. The last few months have been rough between us, but nothing too bad. Sometimes he won’t speak to me for days and then suddenly he’s at my doorstep with dinner and a movie. I mean, sometimes when we go out—always with one or two of his friends—he won’t even _look at me_. I’m worried; he hasn’t texted me a lot since they got to Moscow. What could he possibly be doing?”

 _Or who_ , Harry wonders. Could it be true, about Louis’ brothers? He doesn’t know if Louis even remembers what he said in the car, about his brothers fucking. But what about the possible ring that had Sophia gushing over that day at the Tomlinson estate? What did Louis say about it?

 _It’s a shame, because I highly doubt that ring will be for her. It’s complicated and not really my story to tell._ If it wasn’t for her, than who was it for?

Perrie comes back with their orders and Harry pushes it all to the back of his mind. They agree to take a stroll through Grant Park once they’re done eating. While the wind keeps pushing them and bites red the tip of Harry’s nose, it’s fun nonetheless. Sophia is witty and sweet, and as much as it bothers Harry that she and Louis hooked up, he can’t let it matter. Sure, he knew that Louis had numerous partners before him; he just never thought he would go out to lunch with one of them.

After a few minutes of wandering around in the cold, Perrie starts to whine about using the bathroom. As they leave with a promise of hurrying back, Harry sits down by a small, water-less fountain. He checks his phone to see nothing new and sighs. It’s not two minutes later when someone joins him on the bench.

“Hope you don’t mind.” A male smiles at him brightly, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Oh, no, it’s fine,” Harry replies politely, subtly shuffling over. 

“It’s just so cold, right? A few weeks ago we had a heat wave and now it feels like it could snow!” The thick man laughs, wrinkles forming by his mouth. “That’s the Midwest for you, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees. “I rather like it. It’s much different from the East Coast.”

“Oh!” The man laughs, turning to face him. “I knew you weren’t from here. You’ve got a distinct accent—where are you from?”

“Um,” Harry stalls, craning his neck in search of the girls. “Boston, actually.”

“Oh, Boston is just _so_ nice. Been there a few times.” The stranger nods, his short hair hidden underneath a beanie.  “I’m Jacen,” he introduces himself, holding out a gloved hand.

Harry looks down at the hand in interest and discomfort. The man besides him is young, maybe in his early thirties, handsome, too, but there’s just something about him. It’s a gut feeling. “Sorry, ‘m hands are cold,” he explains as apologetically as he can, hands not moving from their warm, safe spots in his pockets.

“It’s no problem.” Jacen's smile never seems to slip of his face. “What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t,” Harry mumbles, a cloud of cold leaving his mouth. 

“Did you know this section of the park was built by the Tomlinson family back in the seventies?" Jacen goes on like he missed Harry's answer. He misses the way Harry's back stiffens like a board. "Have you heard of them?”

"Um, I." Just _who_ is this guy and why is he talking about Louis’ family? Does he know them? He can only chuckle nervously. “I think everyone in Chicago knows them…”

Jacen continues, “Actually a lot of this city is owned by them. They’re not the same people you see on the—“

“Harry!” Sophia yells from a few feet away, Perrie by her side. The brunette jogs over to Harry on the bench, narrowing her eyes at his company. She grabs Harry’s arms and pulls him away. “Wilds, what the hell do you want?”

“Ah, Sophia Smith, the lovely girlfriend of Liam Tomlinson.” Jacen rolls his eyes, standing. “It’s always so nice to see you.”

“I wish I could say the same,” she quips. “What are you doing here?”

Jacen, or Wilds, holds his hands up. “Just taking a stroll through the park, enjoying the wonderful weather for I have every right to. Now, why don’t you introduce me to your new friend?” He nods over to Harry, who’s watching the exchange with confusion.

“Wait, you _know_ the Tomlinsons?” Harry wonders. 

Sophia nudges his arm, telling him to be quiet. “I don’t think we have enough time for introductions, sorry.” She presses her lips tightly, her nose high. “We have somewhere to be.”

“Whatever you say, Smith.” Jacen Wilds shrugs before turning to Harry. “It was nice to meet you, Harry.”

“C’mon, Harry, lets go,” Perrie speaks up, tugging on his arm and leading them away from the mysterious man and the bench.

That was so weird. “Who was that?” he asks Sophia once they’re a safe block away, cold hitting them repeatedly.

“Police,” the tall girl groans. “You shouldn’t talk to them, they’re scum.”

 _Police?_ “What did he want? Why was he asking about Louis and his family?” he questions out loud, watching Sophia grimace. What the hell is going on?

“I don’t know much,” she answers, wrapping her arms around her body. “All I know is that the watch Louis and Liam and others from time to time. They—they think they’re dealing some, uh, questionable things. I just know that Liam promises it’s not true and that I should never talk to them, so you shouldn’t either, Harry.”

“The cops track Louis?” he asks doubtfully. They believe his boyfriend does something awful enough to follow him around? He wishes he was more surprised, but…He’s not, in all honesty. Nothing about Louis ever adds up—what kind of real estate agent goes to Moscow for a business trip with half his immediate family and ends up in a fucking fight club?

God, his own mother is a police officer—she is _not_ scum. What has he gotten himself into?

“Don’t worry about it, H.” Perrie frowns at him, concerned etched in her face, circling her arms around his waist in comfort. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”

He sure as hell hopes so. 

He goes back to his dorm minutes later and is surprised to find flowers at his door. They’re a beautiful batch of pristine, white, long orchids that take his breath away. He hurriedly picks up the long vase, holding the heavy glass with one arm as he struggles with his keys. Inside, he sets them on the desk and reaches for the card.

_Harry,_

Tu me manques. _The French don’t say I miss you, they say you are missing from me. In a few hours a car will come pick you up and take you back to my penthouse. I can’t wait to see you._

_-Louis_

He drops the card on his desk with a large smile, dimples deep in his cheeks. He reaches for his iPhone, pulling up Google immediately. _White Orchid meaning,_ he types in. Instantly, he gets thousands of hits. _White orchids convey many meanings including love, beauty, luxury, strength and power,_ he reads.

Unlike the others flowers previously sent to him by his boyfriend, these orchids don’t have just one specific meaning. _Love?_ Could it be true? What does it really signify? _Does_ Louis feel the same way about him? _Strength and power?_ If Louis Tomlinson was a flower, he would be the purest white orchid.

Harry plops down on his bed, phone still gripped in his hand. He frowns slightly: Louis hasn’t called or texted him since this morning’s drunken call. He doesn’t want to be one of _those_ boyfriends, clingy and desperate, waiting by the phone to hear from his man. He should be thankful, shouldn’t he? Louis has communicated with him everyday and he even sent him flowers, while Sophia gets zip and Perrie—well, Perrie doesn’t seem like she’s too bothered with the fact that Zayn hasn’t tried to reach her.

He cracks open his new copy of _One Hundred Years of Solitude_ , trying to invest himself in the story, but Louis won’t leave his mind—what’s new? His mind keeps running back to the park, with Jacen Wilds and Sophia. What the hell is Louis Tomlinson involved in? What is his real job? No real estate agent has cops trailing their ass.

He knows about the drugs. Hell, the first time they met Louis was high on something, and he’s made it no secret that he’s more than fond of weed. He’s never smoked anything other than a cigarette in front of Harry, but the latter isn’t an idiot—he can tell whenever his boyfriend has just finished a smoking session with Zayn, his clothes clouded by heavy cologne and eyes rimmed red.

 _Oh God_ , what if Louis is involved with something so awful, like a drug cartel or something? What if he’s a drug dealer? Harry folds his book closed on his stomach and pouts. Louis’ whole family is dodgy as hell. A big, Italian family shitting money, wiping their asses with money rolls. Harry really hopes his crazy theories are off, otherwise starting a relationship with a drug cartel member isn’t so... okay.

It’s starting to darken outside when Harry’s phone lights up, and he scrambles for it, belly fluttering when he sees Louis’ name in his notifications bar. _Fucking finally._

 _Just got to my place . cars outside your dorm , will bring you to my building_ , the text reads. 

 _Call me, I miss your voice_ , Harry adds shamelessly.

_Sorry, I cant. Lots is still here and she wants me to rest mt jaw ??_

Harry groans. How could Louis be so stupid, going to an underground club to _fight_? He had said he was fine, that he wasn’t hurt, but that was obviously a lie! Has Louis hurt his jaw so bad that he can't even speak? Harry might just kill him—if Johannah doesn’t first, that is. He’s changing into a soft, white shirt with motorcycles on it when his phone goes off again.

_If you still want to see me , that is…_

Harry scoffs. What an idiot. _Don’t be an idiot_ , he replies. He grabs a coat from the back of his desk chair and shuts the door behind him, opting to go down the stairs than wait for the slow elevator. Outside, there’s a car waiting for him, a friendly-looking man with a wool cap waiting by the back passenger door.

“Harry Styles?” The man asks with an easy smile.

“Yes, hi, that’s me.”

“I’m Briar Watson, Mr. Tomlinson’s driver. If you would please.” The driver opens the door and Harry shuffles inside with a quiet thank you.

The drive is silent and short, and soon enough his door is opening and he’s stumbling out from the warmth, into the cold air, and inside the warm lobby of Louis’ building. The lobby is warm and fancy, and he moves around an elderly couple as he treks to the elevator corridor. He goes to the very last one, Louis’, before he remembers he doesn’t have a key.

He sighs and goes back to the lobby, heading directly towards the reception area. He greets the receptionist with an unsure smile. “Hi, I’m Ha—“

“Harry Styles?” she asks, nodding. “Mr. Tomlinson is expecting you, sir.” She reaches for something in a drawer, pulling out the flat keycard and sliding it over to him.

“Thank you.” He goes back to the last elevator and taps his foot impatiently as it comes down. Inside, the special elevator only has three buttons and a key slot, so Harry pushes the key in and presses for the top floor, like he remembers Louis doing. Instantly, it starts moving upwards and after a few floors, the view from the glass walls transition from the hotel wall to a bird’s eye-view of Chicago.

He’s so enthralled by all the lights, that he almost doesn’t notice when the doors ding open, revealing Louis’ large foyer. He steps out just in time, the doors almost grabbing the back of his coat. In the foyer, he notices Louis’ open, and steps inside quietly. “Hello?” he calls out in the living room.

“In here!” a soft voice answers.

Harry looks around the large space. “In where,” he mumbles to himself. Are they upstairs? Or maybe in the kitchen? He heads into the kitchen, anxious to see Louis after almost a week of being apart. A whole _week_ doesn’t sound a lot actually, it sounds rather pathetic how gone he is for Louis.

He walks into the kitchen and—bingo! Lottie is mumbling something, holding a frozen steak to Louis face—Louis’ _battered_ face. Harry gasps and covers his mouth, feeling tears form in his eyes as he gets a good look at Louis. His face looks like a piece of art, purple, blue, and red watercolors all muddled together. He’s bruising frighteningly and has small cuts all over his perfect, sharp face.

“Oh thank god, Harry.” Lottie gives him a tired eye roll. “I’ve been trying to get Lou to take his pain meds, but he refuses. Think you can help me out?”

“I’m fine,” Louis growls, grimacing as he moves the raw steak over his bruises. “Lottie, just leave, ‘kay? ‘M not taking ‘em.”

“Oh, Louis,” Harry breathes out, moving to stand in between his boyfriend’s legs, where he’s propped up on the counter. “What did they do to you?”

“He’s just a fucking idiot,” Lottie replies harshly, slamming the orange prescription bottle next to Louis. “Zayn and Li aren’t doing any better. They never play fair; no gloves or pads or—“

“You didn’t wear boxing gloves?” Harry shrieks in disbelief.

“Nah.” Louis starts to shrug but stops mid-way, wincing. “We didn’t wear anything but pants, naturally. Just fists." He tries to smile, doesn’t even have the decency to look sorry.

Lottie sighs besides them. “Louis, please, for the love of God. Don’t be a dickhead, just take them.”

“I don’t like them, they make me drowsy,” Louis fights.

“We’re all jetlagged, you’re _already_ drowsy!” She shakes the bottle again. “Now c’mon, I want to leave.”

“You know you don’t have to be here.”

“I wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t been such a reckless dick!”

Louis growls, “You _know_ why I had to do it. I refuse to talk about this anymore.” He leans against the cabinets and closes his eyes.

“Alright, fine. Get an infection and die. I don’t care,” Lottie huffs angrily, pulling her leather jacket from on top of a stool. She grabs her purse and turns to shrug wearily at Harry, pulling him in for a hug. “It’s nice to see you again. Maybe we can have lunch sometime this week.”

“Yes, of course, Lottie." Harry agrees, watching as she strides out the kitchen. The elevator doors ding open seconds later.

“Is she gone now?” Louis peeks open one eye.

“You shouldn’t be so mean to her, she’s your little sister,” Harry scolds, resting his hands lightly on Louis’ thighs. “She was trying to help you, Lou, she cares about you.”

“I didn’t ask her to!” He protests. “’Sides, I don’t need any pills. I’m fine, I’m a big boy, I can handle myself.” He glares down at the orange cylinder besides him. "I don't need them.

“Alright, if you say so.” Harry doesn't hide the disappointment from his face, pursing his lips. He can’t take his eyes away from Louis’ poor, beaten face. The skin by his eyes is swollen purple and his cheeks are littered with violets. He must hurt so badly. Harry can’t believe Louis—how could he have been so stupid?

“Hi.” Louis grins down at him the best he can, face contorting into a grimace as he slowly wraps his arms around the younger man’s waist.

“Hi, idiot. How did your trip go?”

“It was alright, I guess. I got a lot of…business done. Zayn and I even went to a vodka factory and watched them make it. I think he might want to start his own liquor company, too. If Marilyn Manson can do it, so can Zayn.”

Harry can't help the rumble that escapes from him, instantly in a better mood around Louis. “That sounds fun, albeit a bit dangerous." He takes a deep breath and the mood turns somber. “Lou? What the hell were you thinking?  What did you mean you fought for _me_ ? I don’t ever want you to fight!” He caresses his boyfriend’s injured cheek with a gentle finger. “Look at you…”

Louis leans closer, gently wrapping a finger around a lose, brown curl, and tugging playfully. “It was something I had to do, Harry. Please, I don’t want to talk about it right now, okay?” he mumbles against Harry’s lips. “I missed you. Just kiss me, please.”

Harry hesitates. He wants to keep talking, pester Louis until he gets proper information out of him. He wants to ask why Louis felt it was necessary to get into such a bad fight in order to _protect_ him, but decides against it. He closes the small gap between them, careful as to not further injure his clearly hurting boyfriend, melding their mouths together. He wants to go deeper, wants to grab onto Louis tighter, but refrains. He feels like he somehow unknowingly got his boyfriend hurt during the fight, he can’t hurt him intentionally now. When he finally pulls away, Louis whines in protest, his hands gripping Harry’s hips tighter. Harry smiles and places one last peck to those bruised lips he’s grown to love so much.

“I can’t believe I missed you so much,” Louis mentions with a describable look on his face.

“Hey!" Harry pushes his bottom lip out, taking offence to the statement. "That's rude." 

“Not like that.” The older man's eyes follow his lips, strong hands pulling on Harry's waist, until they're almost chest to chest. “I’ve never missed someone before. Like, sure, when I was at school I sorta missed my brothers, and when I’m not home, I miss my bed, but this. This was different. I’ve never missed a man before.”

“I missed you, too,” Harry admits quietly, "a lot." The beam that wants to take over his face is growing by the second, his cheeks flushing pink, and he has to turn away before he makes a complete fool out of himself. He shrugs his coat off and lays it across a stool. “I’m glad you're back," he says, offhandedly, trying to go for a casual tone that doesn't execute. 

“Me, too." Louis reaches out to him, Harry slotting back in between his legs smoothly. Louis' lips ghost over Harry's skin, over his berry cheeks, down to his jawline. He presses a kiss there, whispering, " _Ti penso ogni giorno.”_

“W-what does that mean?” Harry stutters as teeth nip at his skin.

Louis ignores him, taking a hand and pulling on the collar of Harry's shirt, moving down to suck red on his collarbones. He pulls away rather reluctantly, but has a grin so large and wide on his face, that the cut on his lip stretches and starts dotting blood. “You need to learn Italian,” he finally says.

“I promise I’ll buy Rosetta Stone the second you take your medicine,” Harry bargains, catching his breath.

“You talk a lot of shit.” Louis shakes his head in mock disappointment. “I’m not taking those pills—I’m fine. And you’re not learning Italian through some _book_ ,” he scoffs, “I’m going to teach you.”

“You’re not fine,” Harry presses, brows furrowing in concern. “Look at you! Have you seen you? You’re black and blue. You look awful, Lou.”

Louis swallows, adverting his gaze. “I did what I had to do.”

Harry stops the urge to stomp his feet like a child. “If you’re not going to tell me why the fuck you did this, then I don’t want to hear that excuse.”

Louis presses his lips together in defiance and keeps silent. He raises his curved brows in challenge.

“Fine, whatever,” Harry blows out. “I just—you know—do you want a bath?”

“A bath?”

“Yeah, a bath,” Harry repeats, tracing the mauve mark underneath a blue eye. “Do you have a bathtub? It’ll be good for you, a warm relaxing bath. What do you say?”

“Depends. Will you be joining me?”

“Maybe.” Harry smirks slyly. He slowly pulls the hem of Louis’ shirt up to his chest, smile dropping instantly at the muddle of dark colors on his chest and abdomen. He helps Louis pull it off, wincing each time his boyfriend grimaces. “I need to take care of you first, so don’t get any ideas. Now, where’s that tub?”

“Upstairs.” Louis hops off the counter, almost tumbling to the ground when he lands on his feet.

“ _Fine,_ my ass,” Harry mutters.  He grabs Louis’ hand to lead him out of the kitchen and slowly up the stairs. They walk into the main room, where he sits Louis down on the bed and turns towards the bathroom, but his boyfriend catches his wrist.

“Why are you in such a rush?” Louis asks, tugging him closer. He sets bruised hands underneath Harry’s shirt, seeking warm skin. “I’m here now, right? I'm with you. Don’t worry.”

“How can I not? You’re all beat up! I almost had a heart attack when I walked into the kitchen.”

Louis lifts up Harry's shirt gingerly, placing open-mouthed kisses on the wings of his butterfly, thumbs pressing down on his ferns. His tongue trails the skin, tracing each detail of the precise tattoo. “I’m so happy to be home with you,” he admits against Harry’s skin, “so happy.”

“Y-yeah, me too.” Harry agrees absentmindedly, long, gold-painted fingers curling into straight locks. His heart might beat out of his chest and drop into the floor. The feeling is nothing new, yet it gets stronger every time. He doesn't know how it works, this love thing, but it fills his body with sweet honey, and he doesn't care how greedy he feels when he admits he only wants more. 

Louis’ hands drop from his stomach to the button of Harry’s jeans, his mouth moving lower and lower until his lips graze the top of his Calvin Kleins, pushing them down centimeters with his mouth. He pulls back slightly, unbuttoning the jeans and dropping the zipper down, before instantly attaching himself back to Harry’s skin, touching, kissing. “You smell so sweet. Your skin is so smooth and soft. ”

Harry holds his breath as Louis grips the back of his thighs and presses open-mouth kisses to the space above his shaft, smooth and hairless. He lets out a throaty whine when he feels a cool tongue on his skin, when Louis’ small hands fit perfectly on his ass. “Lou—Louis—“

“You taste sweet, too,” Louis mutters to himself, a look of concentration passing his face. He pulls the lace fabric further down, his mouth following. “Were you a good boy, baby?”

“Yes—yes, but—“

“But what?” Louis smiles, turning to look up at him with faux-innocent eyes.

“We need to stop, Louis.”

“But _why_ ?” he groans, dropping his head to rest it on Harry’s tummy.

Harry pulls away. “You haven’t gotten tested, among other things. You’re hurt.” He starts walking backwards, away from his man on the bed, smiling. “I’ll get the bath ready.”

He turns the light on in the enormous bathroom, cheeks flushing as his gaze falls upon the glass shower—maybe another time. He spots the tub in a corner, furthest away from the door, and it looks more like a sunken, granite hot tub. He gets the water running and goes to the cabinet for some bubbles, picking out Louis’ favorite Tom Ford body wash. Harry messes with the jets and soon enough there’s a stirring noise and bubbles are popping out from the jets. The water is the perfect temperature, not too hot, just the right amount of warm. He dumps a good load of the body wash and instantly the room is filled with the sweet aroma. “I hope you’re getting naked!” he calls out.

“You can bet your sweet ass I am.” Louis laughs from behind him, arms wrapping around him.

Harry turns around and feels sick, his dinner threatening to come back up. While Louis in simple, white boxer shorts and nothing else is always a sight, his body showing the remains of someone’s fist on his skin is not. He has to blink back the tears, eyes wandering, taking in every blue and purple spot on his boyfriend’s once-spotless skin. He’s angry, feels the feeling sneaking up.

“Harry,” Louis warns, his mouth twisted in a dangerous way. “I don’t need you to act like my mother.”

“Nope." Harry pulls a nonchalant face. “I’m just wondering, ‘s all. Wondering why you would ever do this to yourself. But whatever, it’s none of my business.”

Louis rolls his eyes and walks over to the counter, shuffling through tubes of who-knows-what. “I had a lot to lose, Harry. I don’t expect you to understand that.”

“Lose what?” Louis is silent. “ _Me?_ " Harry asks, flabbergasted. "Louis, you won’t ever lose me. I’m not worth dying over!” Harry shouts in disbelief, his anger bubbling over.

“Yes, you are!” Louis grits through clenched teeth. “You’re worth killing for.”

Harry gapes, taking a step backwards. His heart has dropped to the floor. “Louis, please tell me you didn’t—“

“I don’t expect you to understand, Harry,” Louis murmurs, glancing down at the ointment in his hands. “I’m not ready to tell you, okay? Just—give me time.”

Harry nods, turning off the faucets and the jets and sitting on the edge of the granite. He can’t push Louis into something he clearly doesn’t want. The last thing he wants is to push Louis away, when sometimes it feels like he's in another room instead of right next to him. “Are you ready for the bath?”

“Harry…”

The younger boy keeps his head down, biting his bottom lip, fingers playing with the bubbles. “I—I don’t like how careless you are with yourself. I know, I know; you had your reasons, it needed to be done, whatever. It could’ve been worse, you could’ve gotten punched somewhere important. You could've died.”

“That was the point,” Louis replies calmly. “But I didn’t—I’m here, right now, with _you._ ”

Harry nods, sweeping a loose strand from his face. “Just don’t shut me out, okay? Please? Helping you—that’s all I want to do. That’s how I show how much I care for you. Louis, you—you buy me things and take my on extraordinary dates and send me the most beautiful flowers, and I love that, I do, thank you. But I don't have that much like you do. This is how I show it, okay? By taking care of you and being here for you.”

“Okay, ‘course. I understand that.” Louis leans off the counter and goes to Harry, pushing the curls away from his face. “Now how about that bath, huh? You goin’ to get in with me?”

“Nope,” Harry pops with a sly smile. “I don’t want to hurt you even more, and don’t even say that I won’t. A clumsy, slippery person in a bath with a terribly hurt person can’t be safe. Don’t think so, man. C’mon, get in.”

“If you say so," Louis says. He slides his boxers off, letting them pool down to the floor before stepping out of them. He bends down with a groaned pain to pick up his underwear, and guiltily Harry can’t look away. Louis’ ass—Louis’ ass is glorious and plump, the surface smooth and golden. His thighs are thick and Harry can only remember sinking his teeth into the hard flesh.

Louis steps into the tub carefully and with a grimace settles into the hot water and perfumed bubbles. “Fuck,” he whispers, eyes fluttering shut. “This is really, _really_ nice…”

“Told you so.”

“If you’re not going to get in with me, can you at least rub the ointment on my new tattoos? It’s on the counter.”

Harry lights up. “I totally forgot you went to the parlor. What did you get, let me see!” He hops off the bathtub edge and reaches for the small tube of ointment before plopping back down.

“Uh, well.” Louis lifts up his dry, left arm. His left arm doesn’t have nearly as much ink as his right, so Harry knows that whatever goes on that arm is special. It’s all black or red, or both, which is interesting.

“A knife?”

“No,” Louis swallows, looking at Harry with an intense look. “It’s a dagger.”

“It’s still a weapon,” Harry says hesitantly, reaching over to rub some of the lotion over the healing ink. “What does it mean?”

“Um, well,” he starts. “A dagger is a bit more personal than a gun, don’t you think? You’ve got to get really close to the… victim—for the lack of a better term—not only physically, but maybe emotionally, too? It’s a symbol of strength, bravery, power. It kind of carries a sense of danger.”

“Dangerous? Just like you!” Harry laughs. “You’re danger.”

“And what are you? Love?”

Harry shrugs. “Maybe.” He looks down at his own left arm in interest. “You know…your dagger is in the same spot as my rose. Dagger through the rose, wouldn’t you say?”

Louis perks up, looking at the delicate petals of Harry’s colorless rose. “What does your rose mean?”

“It is just a beautiful rose, really. There’s this tale that I looked up before I got it, about sailors. They would link it to femininity—when life was hard, or when the seas were rough, their roses would bring some sort of peace for them, remind them of whom they really were, what they were capable of,” Harry explains. “Sometimes roses are about love, too, especially ones with thorns. Maybe a reminder that nothing comes without sacrifices.”

“That’s beautiful, Harry." Louis smiles up at him. “A dagger through a rose… The union of opposites maybe? A rose is so beautiful, pure, and a dagger is harsh, the complete opposite, pain.”

Harry nods slowly.“You just—it’s like we got matching tattoos.”

Louis laughs loudly, his eyes crinkly. “Baby, look what you’ve done to me! Unconsciously getting couple tattoos already.” His smile becomes smaller. “I mean, does that bother you? We can keep the two completely unrelated.”

“No, no,” he’s quick to say. “I—I like it. It’s nice, it’s beautiful.”

Louis relaxes back in the tub once his arm is free, hanging it on the edge of the tub. “Think you could get my luffa from the shower?”

Harry stands willingly, thankful for the few seconds he has away from Louis to _breathe_ , _couple tattoos_ a mantra in his mind. He was nervous, getting his realization of their matching tattoos out in the air, but Louis—Louis didn’t even seem to mind, he didn’t cower away from something permanent on their skin linking them together. (When should he bring up the compass and the ship, because surely Louis can’t be _that_ clueless?)

He dips the white luffa in the water and brings it back up to his boyfriend’s shoulder, gently moving the fabric over the bruised skin.

“Baby, you don’t have—“

“I want to,” he states, moving the luffa over his chest. “Just relax, okay? I’ve got you.”

“I think I was seven when I had my last bath,” Louis mumbles. “It’s been years.”

Harry runs the scratchy fabric over a large bicep, leaving white foam on Louis’ stag. “Bet you didn’t have a hot, young nurse like me to look after you.”

“Never." Louis opens his eyes. “You do know that I’m naked under here, right? I could easily pick you up and throw you in here with me.”

“You better not!” Harry laughs through his warnings. “You really had to do this?” He washes over dark, painful marks, his stomach churning.

“Yes,” Louis replies softly. “People aren’t—they’re not very supportive, or understanding. It can get dangerous. I just—it needed to be done. It was a warning.”

Harry gulps. “To who?”

“To them.”

Harry won’t pretend to understand, at least not while he’s still in the dark on the real reason his boyfriend is in pain. He’ll leave it alone, let the days pass, and see what Louis says, or if he even brings it up again. Harry just prays there isn’t a repeat.

“You should see Zayn, that dumbass. He hurt his hand and Ma is pissed because he can’t shoo— _draw_ ,” Louis stammers uncharacteristically. “He can’t draw, and you know we’re all invested in his gallery and that.”

“Uh, alright.” Harry narrows his eyes at him. “You sure?”

“Liam has boxed since he was a kid, so he turned out much better than all of us." Louis ignores him, continuing. “Such a cheater,” he mutters grumpily.

“Speaking of, um, Zayn and Liam.” Harry cringes, god, it even sounds forced to his ears. “I had lunch with Perrie and Sophia, and, well, Sophia was upset that Liam never made the time to call her, especially since you and I talked every night.”

“Okay, and?” Louis asks, completely uninterested, blowing at a bubble on his shoulder. 

“She said he’s been distant for a long time now and she feels like maybe he’s not going to propose to her at all and like, maybe, she shouldn’t—“

“Harry,” Louis cuts his rambling. “Just ask what you really want to know.”

“I, uh.” Harry stares at the bubbles, slightly mesmerized by the rainbow reflections on them. “Are Liam and Zayn—? You said they were fucking, back in your car last week. I just—is it true?”

Louis pauses, before nodding. “Yeah, I suppose. They were together for _years._ Li always had a girlfriend for a few months to keep Johannah off his back, to not raise suspicions. Then they broke up, like a year back, right before Sophia came along. They’ve been off and on ever since.”

“Oh." Harry takes a deep breath. That wasn't what he expected, but it makes sense, homehow, Liam and Zayn. He hardly knows them, but he's seen them next to each other, and they make a beautiful couple. "How are they now?”

“I don’t know, to be honest. They broke up again a few months ago, then Perrie came along, and they've kept their distance. On the trip to Moscow they found out Johannah knows about them, so I don’t know what—“

“Johannah knows about them?” Harry interrupts, pausing his movement. “How has she not done anything? Is she bothered by it? They're _brothers_.”

“I don’t know that, either.” Louis hums, seemingly not bothered by anything. “We’ll see what happens. My mother has a schedule, who knows what’s in her calendar.”

“Is it weird?” Harry clarifies, “For you, I mean. Knowing that your brothers are together. _Were_ together, whichever.”

“It’s more an annoyance than anything,” Louis admits with a huff. “They’ve been in like, love with each other since they were eighteen. Zayn before that, I think. They were always annoying, parading their love and shit in front of me. I only found out a few years back—they kept it so well hidden for the first years—and I promised not to say anything. I didn’t understand it back then, but.” Louis snaps his eyes to Harry, licking his lips in thought. “I think I do now.”

Harry flushes, trying to bite back his grin. He leans forward and presses a kiss to Louis’ soapy shoulder. “I’m so happy you’re back, Lou.”

“Do you know how badly I want you to be in here, with me?” Louis asks. “It’s pretty bad; I might hold you hostage in my bathtub.”

“Baby, I’ll never leave if you keep holding me this way.”

Louis swallows thickly. “Good to know. I’ll keep you tied down.”

“Hm.” Harry stands, eyebrows rising. “I might like that.” He stands and throws the luffa into the water, laughing when it splashes Louis in the face. “Hurry up, I’ll be waiting for you out there.”

“I’m getting all pruney,” Louis mumbles. He throws the luffa back at Harry, hitting him in the chest. “Get out!” he yells, laughing when Harry flips him the finger and walks out.

Louis comes out minutes later with a towel wrapped around his waist and nothing more. His hair is wet and long, drops trickling down his shoulders. Harry saw this coming; Harry _prepared_ himself for this moment. He holds out a clean pair of boxers for Louis, the later who takes them and nods in thanks. What he _wasn’t_ expecting was Louis to drop his towel on the carpet—just like _that_ —and take his sweet time pulling up his underwear.

“I, uh—downstairs. Downstairs, yes!” Harry flashes his eyes away from Louis and picks at his nail polish, ruining the pretty color. “Your medicine is in the kitchen, I’ll be right back.” He doesn’t wait for another word from his boyfriend, immediately leaving the room and hauling ass to the kitchen for the pills.

When he walks back into the room, Louis is propped up against pillows, form hidden under the covers. He’s scrolling through his iPad and ignores him as Harry sets down a glass of water and the medication on the nightstand.

“Just take them, Louis, don’t be such a child. I _know_ you can swallow!”

Louis glares up at him with no heat. “Cheap shot, but no. I don’t need ‘em, princess.”

“It’s only two little pills,” Harry sighs, sitting by Louis’ legs at the edge of the king bed. “Please? For me?” He does his best pout.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“ _No_ .”

“Fine, if that's what you want.” Harry stands, grabbing his boots from beneath the bed. He stuffs one foot in and then the other before Louis is shuffling behind him in bed.

“Wait—where are you going? Are you leaving?”

Harry grabs his belongings from the vanity and nods, not looking behind him. “It’s almost midnight, I should get going.”

“Oh,” Louis breathes. “I—I thought you’d be staying here, with me. I just got back and—“

“You didn’t go to war,” Harry snips.

“ _Fine_!” Louis shouts. “You really want me to say it, don’t you?”

Harry turns with a smile. “I have no clue what you’re talking about, Tomlinson.”

“Styles.” Louis narrows his eyes at him, beautiful and blue and bruised. “Will you stay the night with me?”

“I suppose…” Harry drawls, playing coy. “I don’t have my pajamas, though. That might cause an issue.”

“Anything other than skin and panties would be a sin, Harold." The man pats the empty space besides him.

“Take your pills and we have a deal, Lewis.”

Louis grumbles, reaching for his medication. “For fuck’s sake,” he curses, popping the two pills in his mouth and swallowing them back with a swig of water.

Harry watches happily and quickly strips, folding his clothes and placing them on a plush chair. When he’s down to his white lace panties—the ones with the daisies on the top hem, his favorite—he climbs in besides Louis, carefully, getting as close as he can to the injured man. “Goodnight, Lou,” he whispers into the dark once the lights are out.

Louis is quiet for some time, enough that Harry thinks he’s passed out, but soon enough—“You’re not going to leave this time, are you?”

Guilt fills his body. “No, I’ll be here in the morning," Harry promises. "I'll be ready for a shower—I might let you join me.”

“Good night, princess,” Louis breathes out.

 

Somehow one sleepover turns into a whole week of them. No one is complaining, especially not Harry, who gets to sleep next to Louis and wake up next to Louis and make Louis breakfast, lunch, dinner—just basically nurse him back to health. They stay in bed for as long as possible before eating, they watch movies, they read to each other, and Louis even plays a bit of piano for Harry, singing one of his original songs.

They don’t leave the apartment once. Calls and texts go unanswered; the only talking they do is with each other and the takeout people. Harry’s more than happy with the arrangement, content in having Louis’ undivided attention. Harry falls in love with him more each day; it’s wonderful and terrifying.

On the third day of their short hibernation, Louis remembers the gifts. He struggles to get out of bed, but Harry humors him. Louis grabs his leather duffel from inside the closet, plopping it down on their— _the_ messy, unmade bed. He takes out a small, velvet box, pulling out a curvy, wooden doll.

“This is a Russian nesting doll,” he explains, handling the delicate wood piece to the younger boy. “Or, Matryoshka doll. You keep opening them ‘till you get to the baby.”

“Oh, Lou." Harry grins so wide, his cheeks start to ache instantaneously. He runs his fingers over the big, bright green eyes of the biggest nesting doll before carefully opening it. Inside, there’s another doll with green eyes and dark, cascading curls. He opens them all until the final one—a tiny piece made from one small peg of wood—is out. “They kinda—don’t they look like me?”

“I had someone paint them according to a picture I have of you in my phone,” Louis admits sheepishly. “They did a pretty decent job, with those big greens and rosy lips.”

Harry leans over to give the man a kiss. “Thank you, these are so gorgeous. This was such a nice pre—“

“I’m not done yet, Harry." Louis smirks, pulling a bag from the duffel. “This is what you wanted to begin with.”

Confused, Harry reaches into the bag, fingers instantly melting into soft fur. He laughs, pulling out the flap-ear hat, an _Ushanka_ he’s told, moving it around in his hands. The fur is white and soft as a petal, warm in his hands. He pulls it on top of his head, dimples making an appearance when Louis reaches over to tie it underneath his chin.

“Looks cute." Louis nods approvingly. “White was a good idea. Now, for your last gift.”

“Louis!” Harry’s eyes almost boggle out. “You didn’t have to! You know I was fine with just the hat—“

“Be quiet.” Louis reaches into a zipper, pulling a small, square, red leather box, holding it with both hands. “You’re my boy now, which means I get to spoil you as much as I want, okay? This is your last gift, don’t worry.”

Harry grabs the small box with trembling hands, the gold label reading _Cartier_. Oh, god. He knows perfectly well what Cartier is and has an idea as to how expensive the brand is and— _jewelry._ Louis fucking Tomlinson got him jewelry when all he wanted was a hat. He takes a deep breath before snapping the lid up and— _diamonds._

On plush velvet sit a pair of brilliantly shining diamond studs. He’s so overwhelmed by their light that he can only stare. _Diamonds._ No has ever gotten him diamonds before, certainly never this big or delicate or luxurious, and Jesus. He runs a careful index over the face of one, mouth agape.

“Go on." Louis nods. "Pull them out, put them on. Do you like them?”

“Do I—yes, you ass! Oh my God, Louis, they’re beautiful!” He's quick to take out his cheap, Forever 21 stud hearts, replacing them with the gold, diamond studs. “How—why? Louis, you know you didn’t have—“

“But I really wanted to." The man shrugs in response. “They’re not too fancy, only one carat. I thought they would look good on you.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you." Harry presses kisses all over Louis' warm face, careful of his bruises. “The doll, the hat, the earrings—it’s all too much, but thank you. This was really sweet of you.”

 

On Sunday, they go back to church. Harry’s prepared this time, knows exactly what he’s going against, or rather _who._ He dresses nicely in his fittest and cleanest black skinnies and a simple black tee underneath his blazer. His hair is up in a bun to showcase his new earrings, looking bright underneath the cathedral’s lights.

He sits rather close to Louis, who promises it’s okay now, thumb grazing his covered leg. When it’s time to say peace, he can’t help but notice the small blond besides Lottie, pastel blue eyes moving around the space in alert. He asks Louis, who only says Johannah found him, which, really, _okay._  She just found a teenage boy?The boy, Niall, doesn’t talk, only watches.

After mass they head over to the cemetery, which has Harry feeling all kinds of things. He feels unwelcome, for one. Johannah hasn’t spoken a word to him all morning and now visiting the Tomlinson’s family’s plot feels awkward. Louis and Zayn both promise that it’s fine, but Harry just hopes that’s true. It’s not too bad at dinner, where he’s by Perrie and Sophia, and even Lottie, who compliments him on his earrings and his (reapplied) gold polish. Liam and Zayn are distant, and Harry has no clue why, but he can’t be bothered knowing. The less he knows, the better, right? 

 

Monday, like always, comes way too soon. It’s back to classes and notes and reading and texting Louis behind a big textbook. He walks with lethargy to his math class, sending a quick, friendly—but not too friendly—smile at Taylor before sitting down. It only takes him eight minutes—he counted—before pulling out his iPhone and bringing up his last messages with Louis. He hardly notices when the empty chair besides his is being pulled out, a large man plopping down. He looks up and sees the (handsome) young man already looking at him, an easy smile on his unknown features.

“Have I missed much?” unnamed male asks.

“Uh.” Harry glances back at the board. “I don’t think so.”

“Thanks.” The guy nods. It’s a few minutes later when the stranger shifts in his seat, leaning over. “Do you have a pen?”

Harry holds back his groan. Why doesn’t anyone have pens? “Sure, man, don't worry about it.” He rummages through his bag, before handing one over.

“Thanks, man. I’m Ryan Haeb.”

“Harry Styles,” he answers, smiling politely.

“I can’t believe I transferred for _this,_ ” Ryan whispers to him, his blue eyes targeting the monotone teacher in the front.

“Oh, a transfer? Welcome to Chicago!” Harry grins. “Where are you from?”

“I transferred from Boston Uni,” Ryan informs him.

“Boston?” Harry sits up in his seat. “No way! _I’m_ from Boston, too.” He hasn’t met anyone from his hometown. This is exciting, someone to talk to about Boston, someone to miss the city with, someone to—

“Wow,” Ryan grins back. “It’s a small world isn’t it?”

“What are the chances?”

His fellow Bostonian nods, a slight smirk on his face. “What _are_ the chances?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	17. Football and Realizations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't DELETE anything, ao3 did. Please read my notes in chapter one. 
> 
> Disclaimer #1: Not my story, not my plot, not my characters, not my anything. Simply rewrote it to fit Harry and Louis and the excessive gay.  
> Disclaimer #2: Yes, I do have permission. Original story titled There Will Be Blood by Johnnyboy7 over at fanfiction.net - so please don't report this because I won't be re-uploading it again, thank you.  
> Disclaimer #3: I don't own One Direction.
> 
>  
> 
> thanks to everyone who left kudos again and re-bookmarked, or to anyone who is doing so for the first time. :)

* * *

  _"I was never insane except upon occasions when my heart was touched." - Edgar Allen Poe_

 

 

 “ _He dug so deeply into her sentiments that in search of interest he found love, because by trying to make her love him he ended up falling in love with her. Petra Cotes, for her part, loved him more and more as she felt his love increasing, and that was how in the ripeness of autumn she began to believe once more in the youthful superstition that poverty was the servitude of love. Both looked back then on the wild—_ “

“So everything’s alright?” Harry interrupts for what may be the fifth time since Louis picked up the book.

“Everything is _fine_ , Harry," Louis stresses. 

“It’s just…” Harry shrugs despite the fact Louis isn’t looking at him, playing with the hem of his sweater. “I hated knowing I was the reason you were arguing so badly.”

Louis doesn’t look away from the worn book in his hand, his other palm squeezing Harry’s bare thigh. “Princess, Ma and I fight over everything. We talked through our shit and came upon a few agreements. She said she would try to be more understanding of you, of us, of our relationship.”

Harry questions, “Just like that? She really said that?”

“Yes!” Louis sits up, twisting to face the younger boy, letting _One Hundred Years of Solitude_ drop onto the rug, closing. His hand doesn’t leave soft skin. “Ma has never been totally— _okay_ with the thought of me being gay, clearly. She always knew I was fucking around with men and shit, but I had never taken anyone home before; it kinda shocked her. I’m not justifying her attitude, I’m just telling the truth.”

He takes Louis’ strong hand in his, Harry’s cherry-red painted fingers trailing over the prominent veins, something churning low in his stomach. He doesn’t know why having Johannah’s approval is so important to him. Maybe it’s because he’s always been a people pleaser, or maybe because he holds on to the thin thread of having an actual, honest future with Louis, and he can’t possibly have that if he and his boyfriend’s mother are at odds.

They’re sitting on the floor of Louis’ library, Harry’s feet underneath him on top of a large, white fur rug, soft to the touch. They’re surrounded by shelves upon shelves of books, so high up, reaching the ceiling, that there’s a ladder with wheels, wrapping around the bookcases. From classics written by the Bronte sisters, to J.K Rowling’s _Harry Potter_ to autobiographies on people like Charles Darwin, Louis seems to have them all, and Harry is doing nothing but falling deeper in love by the minute. He's always wanted an intelligent boyfriend, but Louis is even more than that. 

Harry stands up from the floor, letting his boyfriend’s hand drop. He walks towards the shelves, picking out the small fabric of his panties stuck awkwardly between his cheeks, blue eyes like daggers on his back. He wordlessly climbs onto the ladder, on the first step, then onto the second and so on, until finally making it to the fifth. His eyes scan the titles, fingers touching the delicate spines. 

“Harry,” Louis groans, shuffling around behind him. “You know it’s not safe to climb this by yourself; it has _wheels_. Here!”

“Lou!” Harry yelps when he feels cold hands cupping his ass. “I don’t think your hands on my butt would be really helpful if I happen to tumble down.”

“I’d catch you if you did.”

“’Course your hands would catch my ass, not any other— _more important—_ part of me.” He laughs, pulling out a battered collection of poems.

“What the hell is more important than these?” Louis squeezes the small cheeks in his hands.

“My _dick_ , maybe?” Harry grumbles.

“Oh, right.” Louis lets go of one ass cheek and reaches around to grope Harry’s dick, tucked away nicely in his black panties, hidden by the long length of his lavender sweater. "Much better."

“Lou, stop!” Harry giggles, playfully slapping away his hand. He turns to looks down at Louis shyly with the book in his hand. “Do you think—“

“Of course.” Louis smiles up gently. “Anything you want, baby. Do you have a favorite book?”

“A favorite?” Harry scoffs. “That’s like asking a kid to pick only one candy, or a mother to pick her favorite child. Impossible.”

“Nothing’s impossible if you’re talking about _my_ mother,” Louis replies. He chuckles dismissively. “She has a favorite, and it’s no longer me.”

Harry climbs down slowly and turns to Louis, back pressed up against the steps. He pouts. “Niall, huh? How is he, by the way? How did the adoption go; is he taking everything in stride?”

He’s only met Niall a few times, and each time the boy has been mute, refusing to talk to anyone besides his new mom, his new brothers, and Lottie. Not even the twins get a sound out of him. It’s hard to believe the Irish boy is a year older than him, too, when he looks at least two years younger than Harry.

“It’s a lot different than it was with Zayn,” Louis answers. “He doesn’t remember much—not his family, or what part of Ireland he’s from, nothing. Liam called me the other night saying they found him prostituting himself at three in the morning in some shady part of the city.”

Harry’s heart drops. “Where did you _find_ this boy?”

“No clue.”

“Well.” Harry pushes Louis away with one hand on his chest, and begins to climb down, before walking over to the big desk in the center of the room, dropping the book of poems on the top. “At least Johannah is doing the right thing, giving him a fresh start. She has a heart after all,” he jokes.

“Dick.” Louis’ lips turn upwards, sauntering over to the younger boy, pressing him against the desk. “That’s my mother you’re talking about.” His hands sneak their way underneath Harry’s big, fluffy lavender sweater, gripping at his bare, thick skin above his panties.

He feels hot, burning to the touch, underneath Louis’ hands. Every graze of worked, tan fingers leaves a fire in their wake, small torches trailing along his hips. His heart starts racing again, like it always does whenever his boyfriend looks at him with nothing but hunger, like it always does when Louis' fingers tighten on his skin, claiming him. Harry’s eyes fall down to Louis’ lips, pink pink _pink_ and wonderfully soft. “Are—are you really going to start something while talking about your mother?” he breathes out, noticing he’s been quiet for far too long, watching Louis’ mouth like it’s the very first time.

“Start something? Who said anything about starting something?” Louis pulls back mere inches, but his grip on Harry’s skin only tightens, secure enough to hopefully leave bruises come tomorrow morning; little reminders. He moves a hand from out below the sweater, raking his fingers through sleep-messy curls, moving them out of his face. “So, so beautiful, _gattino_. _Bello_.”

Harry’s eyes flutter shut at the soft touches and the new, soft nicknames he’s been called for the last few days. _Kitten_. _Beautiful_. He gasps when he feels lips grazing his ear, teething biting down.

“Lou, no—no, we can’t,” he moans lightly, squirming against the desk as Louis presses his lower half closer to his.

“I,” Louis starts, pulling away completely and ignoring Harry’s disgruntled whine, “have something for you.” He walks over to the long, burgundy leather couch besides the fireplace, rummaging through his LV-monogrammed duffel bag. “This will benefit you.”

“Is it a dildo?” Harry asks dryly, completely despondent at his boyfriend’s teasing games. His dick is starting to ache, tight against his belly due to the lace.

“Always the comedian, aren’t you, baby?” Louis struts back with a folded piece of paper in his hands. He holds it out expectantly. “Mutually beneficial, I believe.” He goes back to wrapping his arms around Harry’s skin, hands grabbing as much warmth as he can.

“What’s this?” Harry looks at him wearily. Louis’ eyes hold no secrets for once, just truth and blue, nothing to hide at this moment in time. Harry wishes it was always like that. He snaps his eyes back to the paper in his hands, unfolding it cautiously. His mind stutters over the words as his menace of a boyfriend presses himself closer, if possible, grinding his dick against Harry’s thigh, only a thin layer of gray sweats separating them.

“You got—you’re clean?” Harry’s grin snaps back on his face, impossibly wide. “I can’t—does this mean—?”

“Yep,” Louis says, moving the neck of the large, lavender sweater to the side, sucking kisses into the crook of Harry’s neck. “I’ve known for two days now, just waiting for the perfect time.”

Harry scowls and gasps concomitantly. “You could’ve told me,” he says, trying to sound disapproving, but all he can think about is Louis’ lips sucking away at his skin, breaking the surface, marking him. His hands go to Louis’ hair, gripping when the older man picks him up by the waist and drops him on the desk, instantly moving in between his open legs. “Please, please, please,” he chants breathlessly, locking the man to his neck.

“Please what, baby?” Louis murmurs against his skin, hands trailing everything he can touch.

“’ve been waiting so long— _so long_ for you.”

“Off,” Louis commands, tugging on the sweater.

Harry nods frantically, pulling back to yank the top over his head hastily. He throws it behind him, not caring with the article lands. He immediately latches onto Louis’ lips, hands clawing at his man’s now-bare back; digging his pretty, blunt, red nails into the hard muscle. He yelps in surprise when Louis picks him up again, long legs going around his waist, and gently drops him back on the fur rug.

“You think—,” Louis pants, covering Harry’s body with his own, breathing out heavily against his collarbone.  A hand sneaks down, past the butterfly and the ferns, fingers teasing the lace covering his hard shaft. “You think I haven’t noticed what you’ve been doing? Wearing these tiny, lacy panties every time we’re together, trying to provoke me.”

“I-I’m sorry!” Harry shouts, clenching his eyes shut as Louis starts moving down his body slowly, lips leaving a wet trail as they pass his puffy nipples, his ribs, his bellybutton, his hips. Louis presses kisses on the lace above his dick, ignoring the precome bubbling out of his slit—ignoring his sensitive head all together. “More, Lou, _please_.”

“What, baby?” Louis mumbles into his skin, licking the expensive fabric, moving downwards to suck at his smooth balls. He completely ignores the tight ring of muscle clenching around nothing, causing Harry to cry out loud, grasping for friction in the air. “What do you want?”

What _does_ he want? His mind is in a whirlwind of pleasure, stuck between two universes; one where he’s on his knees in front of his man, getting his mouth fucked, Louis’ dick hitting the back of his throat and making him gag, making his eyes tear up and his lips plump with rose-pink. He wants to _finally_ get his mouth around Louis, have his mouth fucked raw until he comes, splashing over his panties and his tummy.

In another universe, perhaps this one, _right now_ , he just wants to get fucked. He wants Louis to take care of him and love him and fill him up. He wants to feel his boyfriend afterwards, as he walks and when he sits. He wants to drown in Louis. 

“Please,” he pleads. “Fuck me.” He pulls on Louis’ shoulder, bringing him up, their chest pressing, each inch of their bodies tight and hot against each other. He grinds down on Louis’ thigh, gasping at the sudden friction.

Louis curses against the wings of the smaller bird on Harry’s chest. “Fuck. I don’t—I don’t have anything here. Let’s go to the bed—“

“No, _no_ ,” Harry cries, feeling wetness pool in his eyes. Through blurry eyesight, he sees Louis’ face—beautiful and pink-cheeked. He’s desperate, gagging for it, but he doesn’t care, doesn’t have the sense to be embarrassed at his actions. He ruts up against Louis again, moaning at his boyfriend’s hard length. 

Louis takes his earlobe into his mouth, teething at the diamond there. “It’s going to hurt, baby,” he whispers. “I need to—“

“No, you _don’t_ ,” Harry rasps out. He shuts his eyes, but that doesn’t help ease the feeling of Louis’ hungry eyes on his body. He can’t breathe, feeling lightheaded and blue and lost in bliss. “I already—I already did.”

He feels when Louis pulls back, and he has to blink his eyes open. Louis’ looking down at him with lust, and wonder, and—can it be?—fond. His smile drops flat, sending Harry into a nervous frenzy.

“You fucked yourself, did you?” Louis trails a single index down the span of Harry’s torso until it reaches his dick. “You were so impatient you couldn’t wait for me… Fucked yourself open without my permission.”

Harry gasps. “N-no! I needed to,” he tries to explain in a hurry. “I needed to—“

“No, you didn’t. What you needed to do was wait for me.” Louis tisks. “That wasn’t very good of you, baby. That was naughty.”

“I thought you had f-forgotten! It’s been a _whole week_ since you got back! Louis, please,” Harry tries to reason. He doesn’t know what his man has planned, but needs something— _anything_ right now.

“You broke your promise to me, Harry. That’s not a good boy, is it?”

“No,” Harry whispers, looking at him through glassy greens. He bites down on his lip. “I was bad.”

Louis moves his hand underneath the lace fabric, petting his hip. “Maybe I just shouldn’t fuck you, as a punishment. For being so naughty, fucking yourself without my approval.”

“Please, _Daddy_ , please!” Harry whines, snapping his hips up. He doesn’t notice what’s come out of his mouth until Louis freezes above him, staring down at him with flushed cheeks and an open mouth. _Then_ it hits him. Harry clenches his eyes shut, feels his heart try to beat itself out of it’s cage, and _oh god, did he really just_?

Through hazy thoughts, he’s trying to think of a way to take the word back, but then Louis is gripping his hip tighter and swallowing loudly. “Do you know what happens to naughty boys like you, _gattino_?"

Harry only nods.

“ _T_ _ell_ me,” Louis growls. “Tell me what happens to filthy boys like you.”

Harry’s chest heaves and it’s getting harder to breathe again. “They—they get p-punished.” He’s reaching for this throbbing dick, looking for anything to relieve him of the pain, but his hand is being slapped away with a glare. “N-no, Louis, please, I need to come.”

“Come?” Louis laughs throaty. “Filthy boys don’t get to come until their _daddies_ say they can, understood?”

“Y-yes.”

“I shouldn’t even let you come. I should just fill your mouth and fuck it until you can’t cry any longer, voice raw and soundless. You won’t be able to beg, will you, princess?”

“No,” Harry gasps when Louis grips him firmly underneath the lace. “I’ll be good, I promise, please. I’ll be your good boy.”

“I’ll think about it.” Louis pulls his hand away much to Harry’s dismay, tapping his hip. “Turn around, hands and knees.”

Harry follows the directions eagerly, propping on his knees, but letting his upper body fall to the ground, cheeks pressed up against the rug. He could easily slip his cock out of its lace restraint and wrap his hand around himself, but he doesn’t want to disappoint his—his _daddy_ again, shifting his little ass higher in the air, smugly smiling when Louis breathes in sharply. It’s his turn to shiver when he feels the ghost of a breath at his rear, knees buckling when Louis licks at the small section of skin between his balls and his hole.

He throws his head back, groan loud in the small room, when one finger slips in easily. Soon enough there’s a second and he has to remind himself to inhale and exhale. Louis’ fingers are shorter than his, slimmer, too, but the fact that they’re _Louis’_ is what drives Harry mad. Those two fingers are searching, and the third stretches him more, burning slightly, and he mewls at the feeling.

“You’re already so loose, aren’t you, baby? I wish I could’ve seen,” Louis preens from behind him, one hands gripping his hip tightly, rending him immobile from behind. “I bet it was a sight—you fucking yourself open with your own pretty fingers, your face pink, your lips swollen. So beautiful, aren’t you, princess? And it’s all for me.”

“Yours,” Harry agrees, nodding frantically, curls falling into his eyes. He groans against the rug when fingers brush up against his prostate, pushing back on them and getting a surprising slap on the ass. The loud _smack_ echoes around the small room, his ass cheek stinging, and he moans loudly, his thighs trembling from the delicious impact.

“I thought you were going to behave,” Louis warns.

“I-I am! I will, please!” The expensive rug underneath him is ruined from his wet face and just needs to _come_ , needs to feel Louis inside him, needs _needs needs_. He pants against the floor when Louis kneads his ass with his free hand, caressing the surely pink skin, before dropping a slap on it again. He whimpers at the burning, the black lace acting like a bit of a cover, but it still _hurts_ —it still hurts and he loves it, reels it in, contemplates rutting back against Louis again just for another smack.

But he doesn’t get to, Louis pulling his fingers out and pushing the lace covering him aside. He flushes when the older man spreads his cheeks apart, exposing him. Louis runs the wet head of his dick against the Harry’s pink muscle, before pushing in slowly, both males groaning in union. Harry lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, dropping his head into his arms as Louis bottoms out, filling him up. He pushes back when Louis grips his hips, laying his chest against his sweaty back.

“So tight, baby—so tight for me.” Louis grunts, leaving desperate kisses on the Harry’s back, tongue slipping out to taste his salty skin. “Color, love?”

“G-green…”

Harry bites down on his lip until it turns the skin turns white, hands gripping fistfuls of white fur. He stammers nonsense around his tongue when his man pulls out completely, his graceful fingers gripping his hips like they’re a life support, and slams back in. Harry cries out, working his hips back without rhythm, searching for a release.

“Fuck! D-daddy!” he wails when Louis hits his prostate. His eyes are clenched shut, can’t hear anything but the sound of skin slapping skin, the breathy moans coming from Louis, his own heartbeat thrumming in his ears. Louis doesn’t ease up, hitting his spot without flaw, biting and sucking crimson marks on the sensitive slope of Harry’s neck. “So-so close, Daddy, please. I need to—I need to—“

“You were so naughty,” Louis pants from above him, breathing hard into his skin. “Maybe I won’t let you come.”

“No!” Harry shouts, word muffled by the mouthful of his own raw skin, biting down on his forearm with every thrust. He can’t see more than two feet in front of him, eyes blurred by hot tears, senses on overdrive as Louis continues to snap his hips into him, more precome dribbling on his stomach and ruining his panties. “Please, Daddy,” he begs, “it-it _hurts_.”

Louis doesn’t pause behind him, biting down repeatedly on a quickly-forming mauve bruise on his boy’s spine. “You going to be a good boy for me? You going to do what Daddy says?”

“Yes, yes!” Harry agrees hurriedly as his body trembles, tired from holding himself up, aching with nirvana. His breath gets caught in his throat when Louis leans down and wraps his hand around him, tugging him firmly. “Oh—L-Daddy, I’m going to—“

“C’mon, princess,” Louis urges, hips never flailing. “You going to come for Daddy, hm? B-be a good boy now—“

Harry sobs, coming apart underneath him, dropping flat on his tummy. He cries out loud when Louis gives him a hard slap on the ass again before turning him over onto his back, pulling Harry’s long legs over his shoulders. His stomach is wet with his own come and his black lacies are completely ruined and tucked underneath his balls, but he can only whimper as Louis drives back into him, going deeper due to the new angle, grunting.

He tries to push back against Louis, tries to meet his beat, but can’t, finding himself completely wiped out; heart still thundering in his body, his dick still throbbing with the aftershocks. He lets out broken whines as he allows his man use his body to finish himself off, watching Louis’ face twist with pleasure, how his thin lips press together before cursing loudly.

Louis is so loud—loud, loud, and loud—and Harry loves it, Harry thrives with hearing his boyfriend in bliss. It fills him up, knowing that _he’s_ the one causing those throat moans and high grunts, _he’s_ the one Louis is fucking. He watches in amazement as Louis chases his orgasm, and soon enough his hips still, and he turns his head to bite into the meaty flesh of Harry’s thigh, breaking the skin.

His eyes are closed and his nose is scrunched up as he comes inside of Harry, the toned muscles of his stomach contorting, his tatted chest heaving. He pulls out a few seconds later, falling onto Harry’s chest with no words, just kisses and touches. He grabs Harry, the younger boy grinning widely, and pulls him to his chest—spooning right there on the floor of the library, sweaty limbs tangled together.

Harry tries not to move as he pulls the spoilt panties off his legs, kicking them off with his feet. He lays with body pressed against Louis’, Louis’ strong arms wrapped around him securely. “Daddy,” he whispers. “Thank you.”

“Of course, _gattino_.” Louis kisses his forehead blindly. “So beautiful,” he mutters lightly, “so lovely. C’mon, time to get up, I don’t want you hurting you back.” Louis groans, heaving off the floor and holding out a hand for Harry.

The younger boy frowns at the sudden change, but helps his man pull him up anyway. He bends down to pick up his panties when he outwardly winces at the abrupt slick sliding down from between his cheeks and down his thighs. He tries to be sexy, looking up coyly at Louis through his eyelashes as he scoops it up with two fingers and sucks them into his mouth.

Louis’ reaction, however, is not what he was expecting.

“Fuck!” Louis’ eyes widen comically. “I can’t believe—I didn’t— _condom_! I forgot the fucking condom! How could I be so stupid?” He grabs a fistful of his own hair, tugging in frantic realization.

Oh. Protection hadn’t even crossed Harry’s mind. They’re exclusive, they’re both clean, _and_ he’s on the pill? Why the hell is it a big deal? “Why are you freaking out over this? We’re both clean—“

“Look,” Louis starts, pulling his sweatpants on. “I didn’t want to ask, but… Are you a carrier, H?”

The younger boy stiffens. “Yeah, I am. What’s the big deal?”

“What’s the _big deal_? I don’t want kids, Harry! Like, ever! We just had unprotected sex; you can put two and two together, can’t you?”

Harry rolls his eyes and struggles to pull over his sweater, arms trembling. “I’m on the pill, Louis. Don’t be so dramatic.”

They _finally_ had sex again after weeks of teasing and hurried hand jobs, and this is how Louis ruins it? They’re not ready for babies, of course not: Harry is still so young and in school and Louis—well, Louis is another story, but would it be the worse thing ever? They didn’t have unprotected sex, no matter what his older boyfriend thinks, but a baby conceived between them wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world…

“The pill is only like, 98% effective, Harry,” Louis states seriously, hands tugging down on his cheeks. “That two percent—that could ruin everything, okay? That would be the worst thing ever.”

Having children with Harry would be _the worst thing ever_? He’s not going to let himself dwell on it, isn’t going to let himself get worked up over nothing. It’s silly to even _think_ about having children at such a young age—it’s not going to happen, and even though it breaks his heart to realize it, it most likely won’t happen with _Louis_.

“Listen,” he breathes in, remaining calm. “I’m not pregnant, you didn’t get me pregnant. I’ve been on this pill since I was sixteen, okay? Nothing’s going to happen.” He walks up to Louis, wrapping his arms around his tiny waist. “It’s okay. Now, how about a quick shower then off to bed?”

Louis hesitates. “Just like that?”

“Do _you_ want to keep talking about it?”

“No, I just—?” Louis shrugs, running a hand through his sweat-matted hair sheepishly. “Are you okay? Like, did I hurt you?”

Harry scoffs. “No. I’m okay. I’m just tired, yeah? Can we please go to sleep…Daddy?” He laughs when Louis visibly stiffens and glowers at him, petting himself through his sweatpants. Louis turns on his heel and leaves the room, leaving a giggly, swollen-lipped Harry behind.

 

 _"But I come with a dream in my eyes tonight, and knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart—Open to me!_ _For I will show you the places n_ _obody knows, and, if you like, the perfect places of Sleep.  Ah, come with me! I'll blow you that wonderful bubble, the moon, that floats forever and a day; I'll sing you the jacinth song of the probable stars; I will attempt the unstartled steppes of dream, until I find the Only Flower, which shall keep (I think) your little heart while the moon comes out of the sea."  
_

"Edgar Allen Poe." Harry sighs in content. “I love that one. Can you read it again?”

“No,” Louis refuses sternly.  “I’ve read it four times already, baby, isn’t that enough?”

“But Louuuu,” he whines, pouting profusely. Louis can never refuse that pout—it’s his special _please, Louis, please, please, please?_ pout. They’re laying in the king bed, legs and arms and feet and hands all tangled up in one, big, naked pretzel, and Harry wouldn’t have it any other way. Outside, it’s dark and windy, normal for late October, the city’s lights so bright and mesmerizing from the top of Chicago.

He shifts in the bed, trying to snuggle closer to his man, wincing at the small burst of pain coming from below. They’ve got a routine now—eat, sex, talk, sex, shower, heavy petting, read. It happens like so every time Harry spends the night. Sometimes they’ll go out of their routine and mess around in the music room, Louis on the piano and Harry on the guitar; other times he’ll watch Louis light a joint and he’ll climb on top of him, watching the way the gray smoke curls away from his mouth as he rides him. It depends, really, on the mood. 

On the weekends, Harry will busy himself in the kitchen, preparing whatever he can come up with due to the lack of actual _food_ in the penthouse, demanding to go grocery shopping. Louis never accompanies him, claiming he’s busy, but Harry knows the older man isn’t used to being so domestic; seeing the same person over and over again, all up in his things, squeezing into his clothes, cooking in his kitchen. It shouldn’t be so endearing that his boyfriend fears running errands with him, yet it is.

Of course, falling into a routine of domesticity comes with falling deeper in love. It goes hand in hand, Harry thinks. With the night changes, come Harry’s ramblings. The three little words he wants to say the most get stuck in his throat, and no amount of swallowing will get them to come up or push them back down. Like in the very beginning of his relationship with Louis, the _what ifs_ make a comeback, but they’re hurling more questions then before.

What if it’s too soon? What if Louis doesn’t feel the same? What if Louis _never_ feels the same way? What if Harry is going crazy thinking about all the ways to say it, that he’ll never find the right time, and everything will slip from his grasp? What if it never leaves his mind, not when Louis’ kissing him, or touching him, or lying next to him?

(What if he never gets the chance to tell Louis how much he truly loves him?)

“You’ve been quiet a lot.” Louis strokes his cheeks with a calloused thumb. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah.” Harry nods gently, holding his hand in place. “Everything’s fine.” He grabs one of the pillows and adjusts it underneath his head, curls bunching up in the back. He holds onto Louis’ hand, lying on his side. He looks at his boyfriend, who’s scrolling on his phone with sleep etched in his features; puffy, almond eyes and pale pink lips. He always looks so different when he’s with Harry, when he’s relaxed and and comfortable and warm.

That’s something that Harry can’t understand. Whenever they’re together, Louis acts like a proper boyfriend—he’s cuddly and sweet, and despite the recent media circus that has surrounded them since Louis’ official coming out, he hasn’t acted cold towards him even when his name is being dragged on the front pages. It’s when they’re around other people—strangers, relatives, whomever, that the walls come up and in place of Harry’s Louis is this other person, someone cold and quipped, stony.

Even sometimes, when they’re with his brothers, Louis takes on another persona. He doesn’t act like their _brother_ ; he acts like their—their boss, their leader. Perhaps the most bizarre thing is that both Liam and Zayn follow him, take his orders, like the followers of a pack. They act as though Louis is their alpha, the oldest one of the bunch.

“What do you say?” Louis asks, snapping Harry out of his thoughts.

“Yes?”

The older man throws his head back, laughing. “You weren’t even paying attention to me, were you? I asked, how do you feel about football? Want to go to a game with me?”

“A football game?” Harry repeats in surprise. “I don’t really—I like the Packers, they’re quite good aren’t they?”

Louis looks confused for a moment before shaking it off. “No, I don’t mean American football, I meant like soccer? _Calcio_ , in fact.”

Harry sits up. “Oh! Yeah, you did mention you liked it. Yeah, I think it could be fun. Just me and you, watching a good game of _calcio_ , snacking on—“

“Actually, it’ll be a family event,” Louis confesses, looking sheepish. “Everyone will be there—the boys, Lottie, Fizzy, the twins…My mother.”

“This will be the first time I’ll see Johannah since you told me about, you know, that she’s cool with us now.” Harry picks at a goose feather threatening to escape from his pillow. He’s been nervous, on edge about his next meeting with the powerful woman. Louis promised that she was going to behave herself, but he finds it too good to be true. Only time will tell, he guesses. “I do like soccer…I won’t be a bother?”

“’Course not!” Louis looks at him funny, cupping his jaw. “Why would you even think that? You know my family loves you—more than they like me, let’s be honest with each other. I think it could be fun…”

“I would love to,” Harry finally says, smiling at his love. “You won’t leave me alone with your mom, right?”

Louis groans, dropping back on his side. “No, Harry, I won’t. I’m sure I won’t get to see you anyway—the girls have been asking for you, especially Lottie. I think she has a thing for you,” he admits, disgruntled.

Harry laughs, tracing the veins on his man’s small hands. He knows the girl means well. “That _may_ explain the Halloween costume she picked for me. We’re still going to that, right?”

“Wait, what is it?” Louis perks up, suddenly very interested in their slow conversation. “I haven’t even seen mine. What’s yours?”

“Nope!” Harry seals his lips and throws away the key. “I promised not to say a single thing. _I_ haven't even seen it, she just sent me a picture of it.” If he’s being honest, he’s a bit… _scared_ at the costume Lottie Tomlinson picked out for him for the Halloween event at _Fiction_. He’s worn a lot of risky things in his life: a full-leopard print coat, a (wonderful) striped suit with matching trousers, even tiny, gold spandex shorts and a foam finger for when he went as VMA’s Miley for Halloween last year. But this, this could top it all.

“What?” Louis looks at him with mocking shock. “You can’t keep secrets from me, Harry. We’re a team, remember? Dream team! That means we tell each other everything, especially if those said secrets involve sexy costumes.”

Harry raises an eyebrow at that, challenging him. “So you don’t keep secrets from me, then?”

Louis moves his gaze to the comforter, licking his lips. “I haven’t seen my costume at all,” he changes the topic, “I hope it’s good.”

“That’s what I thought,” Harry murmurs. He knows all about the secrets, but at the same time, he doesn’t know what exactly those secrets _are_. He promised to give Louis time, to not pester him, but how long can he wait blindly? Just as he’s about to bribe Louis into being the big spoon—bribe entitling a simple kiss on the lips and admitting he’s sleepy—a cell phone rings.

“Tomlinson,” Louis snips his answer, rubbing a fist over his eyes. His tone is nothing but professional and Harry can see the bricks stacking on top of each other s Louis' walls begin to build. The voice on the other end is too hush-hush for the young boy to hear, but he can see the vein popping on Louis’ forehead, his hands clutching into fist, and soon enough the man is yelling.

“You fucking idiot!” he roars. Besides him, Harry flinches. “How could you be so damn careless? Are you—well, fucking bring him back! Yes, take Niall with—no, you are _not_ getting Lottie involved in this. _Pezzo di merda!_ Fine, I fucking guess.” Louis stumbles out of bed, iPhone held to his ear with his shoulder, hopping to pull up his discarded boxers. “ _Figlio di troia_ , I’ll be there.”

Harry sits up against the headboard, watching with wide eyes as Louis flashes around the room, from his closet—tugging on a black hoodie over a white _Cheap Monday_ tee and struggling with his jeans—to the bathroom—running a comb through his hair and popping his contacts back in—in a hurry. “Uh, who was that?”

“What?” Louis turns around suddenly, like he had forgotten Harry’s presence. “Who was what?”

“Who was that?” Harry nods towards the phone thrown on the bed. “On the phone just now? Where are you going?”

“It was just—it was no one.” Louis presses his lips tightly, a sign of his frustration. “I have to go, there’s some business shit that I need to do right now. I won’t take long, probably, but don’t wait up for me.” He stuffs his phone into his pocket, grabbing his usual, dirty Vans.

“You have a real estate emergency, right now, at midnight,” Harry deadpans, watching as the muscles on his man’s back ripple. He just wants to know, is that too much to ask for?

Louis stands and walks over to the door. “Harry, I’ll be—“

“I don’t believe you,” Harry states firmly, his gaze not wavering from Louis’ blue eyes. “I don’t believe you, you know that, right? You’re not selling fucking houses at midnight on a Friday. You're not selling this  _shit_ to me at all."

Louis is silent, focused on his hand covering the door handle. “Good,” he finally says, looking at him with guilt. “I’ll be back later, _gattino_. Don’t wait up.” The door slams shut behind and then all is quiet. Until, seconds later, everything is happening in reverse and the door is opening wide, Louis jogging back in. He strolls back into the room, going directly to Harry’s side, cupping his jaw in his hands and meeting their lips together. The kiss is rough—it’s passionate, Louis’ lips strong and determined, but frustrated. Louis pulls back and lays his forehead against Harry’s. Harry grabs his wrists, afraid to let go. “I’ll be back, later, princess, I promise. You’ll be okay here.”

“Okay,” Harry says gently as Louis pulls back, leaving one last kiss on his hair. “Louis, just—be careful.”

Louis nods. “Always,” he replies and then he’s gone again, the door slamming shut downstairs.

Harry doesn’t know many things. For example, he doesn’t know who his boyfriend was yelling at over the phone; he doesn’t know where he’s going so late at night, or _why_ he had to leave in the first place. He knows that whatever it is, it has to be dangerous, more than likely _illegal_ , especially if the police are trailing him. Harry knows that his whole being is shouting at him, telling him to run, to get away while he can, that being with Louis is a risk, a danger.

But even with all that, he can’t move. He can’t move from his spot on the left side of the bed, even as empty as it is, he couldn’t move when he was snuggled downstairs hours earlier besides Louis on the couch, he couldn’t move when Louis had his wrists tied to the headboard with silk ropes in the morning, Louis’ lips between his legs—he didn’t _want_ to fucking move. He didn’t want to move, and he still doesn’t—he doesn’t want to be away from Louis, as stupid and precarious as it is.

Louis has a hold on him. Louis is holding him down. How can Harry ever leave if the man is holding him this way? In mind and body and _fucking heart_ —Louis has it all in the palm of his small, calloused hand. All his life, Harry’s been on his own. He’s never been held down by anything, but when he’s alone with Louis, there’s no other place he’d ever want to go.

There’s an inanity that comes with being the child of a cop, and Harry fills it to a T. He’s never been in trouble, always follows the law, never even smoked pot in the basement of a friends or gotten (extremely) wasted at a high school party. And now he has _Louis_ —Louis who’s been smoking and drinking who knows what since he was a teen, Louis who wears black everyday and owns thousand dollar suits, Louis who never wants to have kids, Louis who drives luxurious sports cars, Louis who makes gazillions a year, Louis who used to fuck men right and left. Louis who is a _bad boy_.

What will his parents think—his mom, his dad, Robin? Gemma? His friends from back home? _Why_ doesn’t he care what they think? The time where he used to be in tears from what people were saying about him and his sexuality and his femininity—it all seems light years away, in a whole other galaxy.

He just—he doesn’t _care_. He doesn’t care if he has to turn his back on what he was taught as a child, he doesn’t care if he’s no longer on the right side of the law, he doesn’t care what people say about his relationship with Louis—be it that he’s too young for him, or that Louis is dangerous, or that he’s just a distraction, or that Louis will bore eventually, or that Louis is much better than him. He doesn’t care about any of it as long as he has him, as long as Louis remains by his side. He doesn’t have any desire to leave his bad boy, this angel of a man with the devil on his shoulder—as long as Louis has that hold on him, he’s staying right where he is.

There’s something cooking up inside him; he doesn’t know if it’s anger or love, or a concoction of both. He knows it's ready to boil over. 

He moves the covers off his legs, stretching and walking to his favorite room in the penthouse. The music room is just as wonderful as it sounds—it’s lofty, with high ceilings and big windows for natural light, instruments hung up on the walls and on stands on the ground. There are plush chairs in one corner, a long sofa against the wall, and a black, baby grand piano in the center, in front of the fireplace. There are both acoustic and electric guitars hung up on the soft, gray walls, along with framed posters of _The Beatles_ and _The Rolling Stones_ and others.   

The hours pass him as he tinkles with the keys of the piano. Just yesterday, he was sat on Louis’ lap as the older man guided his fingers to each key, playing some classic Bach. Louis claimed he had _piano fingers_ , but Harry still hasn’t been able to catch on quite as well, isn’t a natural like self-taught Louis. It’s nearing two-thirty when sleep catches up to him, settling on his bones like dust. 

His feet pad against the hardwood, everything quiet and vast in the penthouse. He’s never been here by himself before, and now more than ever it feels too cold and clean, reminding him of a hospital. Before he slips back to bed, he pulls his cotton panties off, throwing them in the hamper, and doesn’t hesitate to rummage through Louis’ clean underwear drawer. He pulls out a silly pair of boxers—old and a little ratty, but Spider-man—and sneaks them on, hem hitting his upper thigh, fabric loose in the back.

He falls asleep easily, covers warm against his bare torso, despite the empty space besides him.

 

When he wakes back up, it can’t be more than an hour or two since he dropped. He’s confused as to why he’s suddenly awake considering he was so tired, but when he pulls the comforter away from his face, he sees light coming from the crack underneath the bathroom door and can hear the plit-plats of water hitting the shower tiles. He can’t help but smile, _Louis’ home_. He said he would be right back, but he was gone for hours.

Harry hops out off the bed, feet sinking into the plush rug, before he’s making his way towards the bathroom. He gently pushes the door open and walks in. He can hear Louis singing softly underneath his breath, but can’t make his figure through the steam. When he turns towards the marble vanity to write a little happy note on the steamed mirror, he gasps, smile falling off his face as quick as lightning.

There’s blood, a lot of it. On the normally-white, marble counter are Louis’ clothes, folded up like usual—his skinny jeans underneath his—his _shirt_. His shirt that at one point was a pristine white is tainted with crimson, splatters of blood covering the front. His folded up shirt is soaked, dripping slowly onto the tile floors. There’s fresh blood leading into the shower, where Louis—where Louis is, singing serenely, like his normally colorless bathroom isn’t flooded with red.

But the blood isn’t the most shocking part. Sure, there’s an obscene amount of it, dripping and leading, but it’s the gun that frightens him. The big, shiny, gold weapon sitting tranquilly on the counter _covered_ with blood as well. Small, red fingerprints painted on its surface. Louis’ bloodied fingers on the gun— _his gun_. The same damn fingers that were up Harry’s ass just a few hours.

With a trembling hand he covers his mouth, afraid to make a single noise. He was so sure that Louis would never hurt him, but now it doesn’t seem so unlikely. He turns to glance at Louis, who’s scrubbing himself with that same white luffa that is now tainted pink. He wants to ask how much of the water is running red. He wants to run over to him, wants to ask if he’s hurt, if he’s okay, if he’s dangerous, but like before, he can’t fucking move.

He snaps back to the gun on the counter and forces himself to breathe, head getting light. He backs away from the gun, from the soiled clothes, from Louis, and hurries out the door. He has to leave, he has to. How will he to go back to sleep when he knows the man sleeping besides him, touching him, has done something so horrific? How can he make Louis buttermilk pancakes and freshly squeezed juice in a couple hours, when he doesn’t know whose blood is staining the master bathroom?

He can’t. He can't do it. 

He hurries into the closet, not bothering to strip himself of the Spider-man underwear, simply pulling on his skin-tight jeans and one of his plain, white scoop necks. He pulls on his heavy, black, leather jacket and grabs his phone. He doesn’t bother with Poe’s book of poems or his boots, gripping them in one hand, before he’s going the stairs as fast, and carefully, as he can. The elevator, thankfully, is still there and in no time he’s on the sidewalk, tugging on his boots and waving down a cab.

“What the fuck?” Harry groans quietly when he slides into the backseat of the taxi. He pulls out his phone, dialing Perrie, who answers right away, agreeing to meet him at her dorm. “What are you doing, Harry? _Who_ are you involved with?”

He didn’t listen. He didn’t listen when Louis tried to warn him, repeatedly stated he was a bad man. Now he saw with his own eyes. The hands that he loves are tainted with blood, literally and figuratively—how will he ever run his fingers along those veins and those indents knowing what they’ve done?

When the driver pulls up to Perrie’s dorm, he pays and thanks him, but his mind doesn’t leave Louis. He knows that he loves him, and it’s sickening. He can’t think of a situation where he isn’t in love with Louis, can’t think of a place or a time or an alternate universe where he and Louis aren’t together, where he isn’t madly in love with the man. Maybe he just needs answers, maybe just needs to hear the right words come out of Louis’ own lips.

But what _are_ the right words? What are the correct answers? Are they the honest ones, or the ones that will hurt less?

Perrie opens her door on the first knock, moving aside to let him in. He looks around the room curiously, eyes zoning in on the Louis Vuitton luggage, clothes and shoes scattered around the room. He looks back at his friend, noticing the dark circles under her eyes, not a sketch of makeup on her petite face.

“Per—“

“Not that I mind, but you do know what time it is, right?”

“Do _you_? It’s three-thirty, why the hell are you packing?”

Perrie shakes his head at him. She drops some of the smaller bags onto the floor, patting the empty space on her bed. “You tell me first. Why are you so upset? You sounded awful on the phone.”

“I…” Harry hesitates. He can tell Perrie, Perrie’s his best friend. Why start doubting her now? “I saw something.”

Perrie narrows her eyes at him impatiently. “That’s it? You _saw_ something? Harry, you’re not fucking blind, it’s okay if you see stuff!”

“No, that’s not—that’s not all.” He hikes his legs over her thighs and frowns. “How much do you know about Zayn? Like, how much do you know about his job and stuff?” He doesn’t miss the way her back stiffens and her deep swallow. “Perrie, c’mon, what do you know?”

“What do you want me to say?” she asks, exasperated. “I don’t know! He has, like, a shitload of restaurants, he likes food? How he doesn’t gain an ounce is beyond me, but that’s beside the point. He likes art, so he has an art gallery? He's totally not into me at all. ”

“Perrie,” Harry whines. His friend isn’t telling him something, she _knows_. “I know you know!”

“I don’t know anything, Harry!”

“You’re lying! After everything we’ve been through, Edwards, this is how you repay me?”

“I’m not lying!”

“Yes, you are, you filthy liar.”

“Harold—”

“Perald—”

“Okay, fine!” Perrie pushes his legs off her, standing up to pace the length of the room. “Fuck, I’m not supposed to say anything. I’m not even supposed to _know_ anything. If anyone finds out I told you, I’ll be in big trouble. You can’t say—“

“Fuck me. I’m not going to say shit,” Harry promises, looking at her with his best puppy dog eyes. He bounces on the bed impatiently, eyes following the blonde girl who is still pacing the floor. “Just tell me.”

“They’ll know! They’ll know that you know that I know that you know, that I know—”“

“Are you going to tell me or do I have to find out myself?” He feels too impatient, adrenaline running through him. He needs to know  _now_. Whatever it is that Perrie has on the Tomlinsons is important enough to make her doubt him. It also has to do with that mysterious call Louis received at night, prompting him to leave the house and return hours later covered in blood.

“What was it that you saw?” Perrie asks, coming back to sit besides him. “What happened at Louis’?”

“I saw a gun,” he whispers, like he’s afraid someone might overhear, like saying it louder might make it real. “Someone called him around midnight and they argued on the phone and then he just left. He came back around an hour ago, and when I went into the shower to surprise him, he—his clothes were all bloodied and there was a _gun._ ”

Perrie only nods. “I’m not even supposed to know, remember? Zayn—fuck, Zayn got really drunk a few nights ago. He said he had something he wanted to tell me, so I went up to his place and he was already fucked out of his mind. He told me some things that he shouldn’t have.”

“What happened?”

Perrie takes his trembling hands in hers. “I’ve wanted to tell you ever since, H, but I couldn’t. I wanted to warn you, to keep you safe, to take you away from here, but I know my efforts would’ve been useless.” She smiles at him. “You’re so in love, I don’t think it could change your opinion, even as wrong as it is.”

“Perrie,” he pleads. “Just tell me what’s going on.”

“They—the Tomlinsons are involved in some crazy stuff, H. None of is legal. I can’t say much, I’m sorry.”

Harry wonders, “Like drugs? I know Louis does that. Is he some sort of high-scale dealer?”

Perrie winces. “Not just drugs. I can’t tell you anything else. God,” she chuckles. “Jay was so furious when she found out that I knew. You think she hated _you_?”

“It’s illegal? What they’re doing, I mean. Is it bad?”

“It’s worse.”

Harry gulps. “What the hell am I supposed to say? I panicked and fled—I left Louis there by himself. What do I say to him?”

“I don’t know.” Perrie shrugs, giving him her big, blue empathetic eyes. “You love him, and he loves you, and that has to count for something. Zayn never loved me, and I will never belong to his family or his world, not like you. You’re going to be a fucking Tomlinson someday, Harry, don’t you forget that.”

Harry smiles weakly. Why does that always make his heart race?

“I don’t deserve to know anything about this, H, I should’ve never found out. You’re the one who should know, you’re the one who’s in love, the one who belongs in that family, the one who’ll be a Tomlinson. Not me.”

Guilt seeps into his pours. Perrie has been nothing but a good friend to him, supportive and caring. “Perrie, there’s something I need to tell you. It’s about Zayn and—“

“Liam?” Perrie laughs. “I know about that, too. Zayn told me when they got back from Russia, but I had an inkling ever since I found one of his sketchpads filled with Liam’s face and abs in all different mediums.” She shrugs. “That's why they're making me leave, among other things.”

"Yeah, I should’ve told— _what_?” Harry’s heart plunders to the floor. “You have to leave? What do you mean you have to leave? Perrie?”

The blonde stands and kicks at one of her suitcases. “Jay wasn’t happy that I found out since I have no future in the family. She says I would blab—“

“You wouldn’t!”

“I know, right!” Perrie shakes her head in disbelief. “She told Zayn to take care of me, or that she would do it herself, whatever the hell that means.” She sighs, “Z pulled some strings and now I have a one way flight to New York that leaves at seven and a new dorm awaiting me at Julliard.”

Harry’s dumbfounded. “Julliard? Perrie, that’s your dream—isn’t this what you’ve always wanted? I should be happy for you, shouldn’t I?”

Perrie shrugs and blinks rapidly. “This has been my dream since I was a little girl, but why does it feel like I’ve been cheated? I wanted to work for this, and now I have it. It’s in my fucking hands, but I don’t like it.”

Harry takes his friend into his arms. “’M sorry it had to be like this, Per. ‘M so sorry, this is all my fault.” He can’t help but feel guilty—his best friend has to leave her life behind because of him, because of the Tomlinsons. That’s not right. None of this is right. 

“Don’t be stupid, Styles,” Perrie laughs wetly, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “I envy you. You have someone who loves you and cares for you—and even if he doesn’t always show it—I wish I had that. Maybe it’s just not my time. Now stop crying, you little bitch, are you going to help me pack or what?”

“Yeah, ‘course,” Harry sniffles. They spend an hour crying and packing, and soon enough it’s time for Perrie to leave. A black car picks her up and Harry doesn’t want to let her go, hugging her tight as her luggage is stuffed in the trunk. He promises to keep in touch, visit one day, and through blurry eyesight and joking smile, he swears he’ll invite her to the wedding—as if that’ll ever happen.

He watches the car until it turns and it’s out of his sight. What is he going to do without Perrie? The sun is up by the time he returns to his own dorms on foot, but as he lies on his bed, sleep doesn’t come to him. He tries to eat some of the strawberries he has in the mini-fridge, but they leave a sour taste in his mouth. He doesn’t find anything appetizing at all, his stomach churning at the sight of even the nicest bananas.

He leaves his building minutes later, hoping a walk will clear his brain. That plan is cut short when he walks out into the sidewalk to see Louis waiting for him, leaning against his Range Rover, Harry’s messenger bag on his shoulder. He looks normal, nothing like a murderer—but what do murderers even look like nowadays? They fit in with everyone else.

He’s dressed in jeans and a band tee underneath Harry’s old, beaten jean jacket. He has sunglasses hanging on the neck of his shirt and Adidas on his feet, a cigarette in between slight fingers. He looks beautiful, like always, but where’s the blood on his hands now? Down the shower drain, washed away forever?

Harry tries to think of something to say as he walks to him, but he comes up with nothing but blanks. Does he confront him? Does he pretend nothing happened? Does he demand Perrie back? Does he—

“Hi.” Louis drops the cigarette, stepping on it with his heel. His form is rigid, tense with nerves surely—Harry’s had to sit on his bum and knead away the knots in his back more then once before because of his posture.  He's stressed, Harry can tell. Good. “You alright? You, uh, you left last night?”

Harry has to look away, his tan suede boots scuffed and dirty. “Yeah, I did. Sorry, I just. Perrie needed me.”

Louis makes a pitiful noise. “I heard she got into Julliard. Good on her part.”

He snaps his head up at that. “You’re really going to act like you don’t know what happened? Is this how we’re going to do this, then, Louis?” he questions with fury. “My best friend is gone! She’s gone and she can’t come back because of you! ‘Cause of your family!”

“Harry,” Louis sighs, going to grab his wrists, but Harry surprises them both when he pushes him against the SUV.

“No, don’t—don’t touch me with those hands!” he cries. All he can see are the fingerprints made from blood on the handle of the gold gun. “I’m tired of this, Lou, I’m tired of being kept in the dark. I _deserve_ to know, it’s my fucking right. I need to know why your mother sent Perrie away, I need to know why you—why you did what you did.”

“I understand if this is too much for you,” Louis starts, holding his hands up in surrender. “I should’ve been more careful last night.”

“Why do you do that? Why do you talk to me like a child, like I won’t understand the truth?” Harry settles quivering hands on Louis’ hips, looking at him with earnest eyes. “I’m begging you, Lou. Please. Just tell me.”

“Zayn really cared for Perrie, even if he didn’t love her like he was meant to.” Louis glances away, staring at a spot behind the younger boy. “It’s dangerous, knowing what we do, knowing what Ma does. It’s not that we didn’t trust Perrie; it was just for her own safety. Zayn was trying to protect her. I’m trying to do the same with you.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “That’s what you always say, that you’re trying to protect me. How can you protect me when I don’t know what danger I’m in?”

“Harry, please,” Louis warns, his eyes stony. “Don’t start this again.”

“I will! I will start anything I damn please!”

“I didn’t want you!” Louis shouts, twisting away from him and slapping a palm on the hood of his SUV. “I did not want to need you. I didn’t want you to be involved in this life! I can’t fucking stay away from you and I’m fucking scared, alright?” Louis growls, “Is that what you wanted to hear? I’m scared I can’t protect you from—from the bad guys! I’m a damn coward, okay, happy now?”

“Louis, Louis, Louis,” Harry mutters, wrapping his arms around Louis’ waist, hugging him from behind. He presses quick kisses the small sliver of skin that peeks out on his neck. “Why are you scared, Lou? Nothing bad is going to happen, okay? We’ve got each other, nothing bad can happen to us. We've got _us_.”

“It doesn’t work like that,” Louis mumbles. He turns and takes Harry into his arms. “I can’t tell you, _gattino_. I can’t tell you just yet. I’m a coward, I’ll admit it, but I won’t put you danger just to sort out my ego.”

Harry asks, “You’ll tell me? What I saw in the bathroom? Maybe not today or tomorrow, but someday? _Soon_?”

Louis nods against his chin. “I promise. I’m sorry you had to see that, it was reckless. Just…give us some time yeah? It’d be bad if I tell you everything, just for us to go our separate ways in the end.”

“I can keep my mouth shut,” Harry snaps. He doesn't like hearing that. He doesn't like entertaining the thought that, maybe some day, he and Louis won't be together anymore. However, what he hates most is that Louis' already played with the idea. Does Louis expect them to fail?

“I know you can,” Louis agrees, running a finger across the span of his cold cheek. Harry tries not to see the blood. “I’m not saying otherwise, but it’s just better this way. Just give me some time to figure this out, okay?”

Harry nods sullenly. “Okay," he finally says. He doesn’t want to give Louis time to _figure this out_ , he wants to know now. He’s been on edge since the man came back bloody and bruised from Russia, has been searching for answers only to be ignore or asked to _forget it_. He’s not going to forget it. He’ll wait, but not for much longer—he understands that whatever Louis is in is risky, but Harry’s a big boy—he can take care of himself.

He reaches for his bag on Louis’ shoulder and tries not to sulk. He’s not sure what to do when Louis starts leaning in, but smiles lightly as his boyfriend’s hesitation, pressing the lightest, most gentle kiss on his lips.

“Please don’t hate me, baby,” Louis mumbles against his cheek. “Please don’t resent me for this. I will tell you, I _will_ , just not right now.”

“I couldn’t hate you if I tried,” Harry speaks honestly. He's fucking tried, terribly hard. “I’ll see you tonight? For the game?”

“Yes!” Louis lights up. “I’ll pick you up. I’ll text you soon.” He gives him another kiss before jumping into his car.

Harry smiles tightly. “I’ll be here, waiting for you. Like always.” Just as he did with Perrie, he stands on the curb and watches the car until it disappears from his view. He has no energy, wants nothing more than to go back to his bed and sleep the rest of the day away, but he simply can’t. He still has one class left, so he sordidly moves his feet towards the building.

He silently takes his usual seat, face flushing when the professor shoots him a disappointed look. Twenty minutes isn’t even _that_ late. If you’re going to be late, then you better be late as hell, right? He drops his bag to the floor and takes out his laptop.

“You’re late,” Ryan whispers to him, shooting him an amused grin.

Harry shrugs. “I left my books at my boyfriend’s.”

“Boyfriend?” the other male questions, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. “Damn, Styles, I didn’t know you swung that way. I could’ve asked you out days ago!”

Chuckling, Harry rolls his eyes. “Not my type, sorry.”

“Not your type? What, handsome?”

Harry ignores him, coughing to cover the little laugh that threatens to escape. He boots up his Macbook and pretending to listen to the professor going on at the front of the room. Yesterday, he was too busy texting Louis and complaining to Perrie to even write down notes, but today his inbox is clear, his phone silent. 

“Any fun plans this weekend?” Ryan asks after a few minutes. “Exciting shindigs with the boyfriend?”

“Going to watch some soccer tonight.” Harry shrugs noncommittally. “Family event, apparently, then later we’ve got a Halloween party.”

“Soccer?” Ryan’s eyebrows rise. “In Chicago? Odd, I love soccer, but I didn’t know there were any games this weekend.”

“I don’t have a clue.” He doesn’t mind Ryan, finds him funny at times, even rather attractive (he won't admit that to the guy's face, though, that's for sure) but he asks too many questions. Harry’s always been private about his relationships and his gut tells him that discretion and being with Louis go hand in hand.

“What about this Halloween party?” Ryan leans in closer. “I don’t have any plans. Where will it be?”

“Oh, uh,” Harry stammers. Why doesn’t he want to tell him? Why does his gut tell him to lie? He's just another college friend who's interest in having fun on one of the greatest nights of the year. Would Perrie tell Ryan? “I don’t know actually,” he finally says, praying that it’s believable. He’s such a shit liar, can’t lie to save his life. “I have no idea, it was really just word-to-mouth.”

By the time the class ends, he’s able to get away from Ryan and out into the chilly, Chicago air. He’s back in his dorm in a jiffy and away from the cold. He changes sweaters, pulling on a patch-work one that Louis jokingly calls the 'tetris' sweater and pulls a beanie over his curls. He’s in the middle of applying a thin coat of _Myth_ , his favorite satin peachy-beige lipstick from _MAC_ when his phone vibrates on his bed.

 ** _Downstairs !_** the text from Louis reads.

He pockets his phone and stuffs his wallet in the other back pocket of his jeans and locks the door behind him. The elevator is slow, as usual, but when he finally gets outside, he sees his boyfriend. He’s leaning against his big, black Range Rover like earlier before, arms crossed over his chest, waiting patiently. Harry feels as he always does when he first sees him—excitement, love, nervousness, those pesky butterflies in his tummy.

He still has the events of this morning burned into his mind, but he did promise himself to stick by Louis’ side no matter what, so that’s what he’s going to do. As much as it pains him, he’s going to have to wait until Louis is ready to open up and reveal what this bullshit is all about. It hurt to see Perrie go, but whatever Louis and his family are hiding must be incredibly important and dangerous. Maybe it’s best to be kept in the dark for a little while longer. Ignorance is bliss, after all.

Louis holds open the passenger door. “Hi, baby.”

“Hi,” Harry replies, smiling at him. He hesitates only slightly when he presses their lips together, feeling the apprehension and uneasiness radiating from his man. “Everything all right?”

Louis only grins and nods, closing Harry’s door gently. He’s in the car mere seconds later, starting it up and pulling away from the dorm. He’s wearing a dark hoodie and also has a beanie pulled over his sandy strands. “I know we have a lot to discuss,” he starts. “But I hope you can keep it to yourself until we get back. Whatever you saw this morning won’t be spoken of, alright? I would be eternally grateful.”

“Eternally, huh?” Harry turns from the window to face him. Louis has violet circles under his eyes and his usual golden skin looks pale. He’s focused on the traffic in front of them, but Harry knows his mind is far away, in a land that Harry's never been able to reach. “Wouldn’t want to get you in trouble with Mommy, now, would we?”

“You say that, but you should see how angry Ma is at Zayn. She’s never been like this before. Zayn’s her miracle adoption.”

“Okaaaay,” Harry drawls. “Question: how come Perrie can know but I can’t?”

“Perrie _can’t_ know,” Louis emphasizes. “She can’t know that’s why we sen—she had to leave. Johannah wanted to send her to Switzerland, but Zayn convinced her that New York would be better _and_ keep Edwards’ mouth shut. Sending her to Julliard and keeping her in some Upper East Side apartment is the cost we’re paying for silence.”

Harry thinks. “So when— _if_ I find out, your mother just going to send me away, too?”

Louis looks at him sharply. “No! No, Harry, of course not, why would you think that? You and Perrie—the situations are completely different. Zayn’s relationship with her—or lack thereof—isn’t similar at all to what we have. This, _this_ is serious, right? This means something, you and I. It's not the same,” Louis mumbles.

“Okay,” Harry replies nods, Louis' answer seeming good enough for now. He turns to glance back out the window. At least he’s reassured that Perrie won’t _suffer_ or anything whilst in New York City. She has a place to live and a good education—the school of her dreams, actually—so there’s nothing to worry about, right? He’ll miss her, his only good, close friend in Chicago.

Now, the only thing he has to worry about is _Louis_. 

Besides the random Childish Gambino coming from the car radio, they drive on in comfortable silence. Harry finds that he’s excited for what’s to come at the soccer game. He gets on well with Louis’ family, and he feels like today will truly tell where he stands with Johannah Tomlinson. Everyone else, from Louis’ sisters to his brothers and even his step-father, is fine with his presence. They might not _all_  laugh at his jokes, but they’re not _annoyed_ , either. He’s got a chance.

"Uh, Lou?" He’s more than confused when Louis pulls up to a private airport, jets varying in size on the tarmac, some white, some black. He recognizes Lottie’s black G-Wagon and Liam’s white Lambo and the Tomlinson family’s Maybach. “I thought we were going to a soccer game? I don’t—“

“We are.” Louis pulls up next to the other cars, where men in black suits are waiting silently, opening the doors for them as soon as the SUV stops. Louis tips them and takes Harry’s hand, leading them onto the tarmac, to a large, white jet with red stripes on its side. “We’re going to see ManU.”

“Manchester United?” Harry asks. He stares up at the plane, bigger than the one he flew on from Boston to Chicago. “The club in Manchester? But that’s in England!”

Louis laughs, tugging on his hand and leading him up the folded out stairs of the jet. “You catch on quickly. C’mon, everyone is waiting for us.”

Inside, they’re greeted by a chorus of warm welcomes and even a grumpy _finally_ that sounds like Zayn. The jet seems even bigger from the inside, with rows of tan, leather chairs and long, comfortable couches, a kitchenette, several flat screens, and private cabins with beds. It’s the _family jet_ , Daisy informs him, just like there’s a _family yacht,_ and several luxury  _family cars,_ and  _family homes_ around the globe. He’s never met anyone before with such luxuries, with neither a jet nor a yacht or a multitude of Mercedes-Benz in a enormous garage. It's like some Kardashian shit, or even more extravagant. 

The hours from Chicago to Manchester City fly by fast. Soon enough they’re landing in cold England and hopping into warm town cars, driving them to a private, smaller garage with extra security. The little time Harry gets to view overcast Manchester from the tinted windows of the glossy car, makes him want to explore all of England one day. Maybe him and Louis, some day, can—

“Executive box seats,” Louis says, interuptting Harry's daydream. He grins and helps Harry out of the car, immediately taking his hand, much to Harry's delight.

“Executive box seats?” Harry repeats in awe. How does one in live in so much money and act as nonchalant as the Tomlinsons do? “Do you always come all the way to Manchester to watch football?”

“Sometimes, depends. I haven’t had time, but I have to see how my team is doing.”

“Your team? Big fan, then?”

“Well, I would think so; otherwise buying a portion of the club wouldn’t have been a smart idea," Louis answers, with a tongue-and-cheek tone and smile.

“Wait, you bought—you know what?” Harry shakes his head, stray curl falling into his eye. “I don’t want to know. Are we going to be with your family in the seats?”

“You’ve never been in box seats, have you?” Louis chuckles, laughing at Harry’s scornful face. “Yes, they’ll be with us.”

“Even your mom?” Harry asks softly, looking behind his shoulder to see the rest of the Tomlinson family stepping out of the cars. “She doesn’t hate me still, does she?”

“She never hated you.” Louis strokes his flushing cheek with the back of his index. He scoffs at Harry's disbelief.“She was just—she was looking out for her family, yeah? It’s a lot of pressure being the— _head_ of this family. Just…give her a chance, for me? She’s giving you one.”

“Of course,” Harry says. He can do chances, right? He can charm the pants off anyone. Charming the scowl off Johannah Tomlinson might be a bit harder, however.

Louis wraps an arm around his waist. “You’re staying with me,” he whispers.  He starts leading them towards the end of the garage, to an elevator. “C’mon, let’s get something to eat. We’ll watch the warm-ups, too.”

The rest of the family is still mucking around in the garage as the couple get into the elevator, leaving them behind. Harry snuggles into Louis’ warm chest, pressing a chaste kiss to his smooth neck. “I’m kinda excited,” he admits. “I like soccer, or football, as they call it here. This should be fun.”

They doors slide open to reveal a long hallway with security. One of the guards only nods and welcomes them, letting them pass through. They go through several beige hallways, with Louis as their only lead, until he finally stops at door, a white piece of paper with _Tomlinson_ written on it taped up to the smooth surface.

“Jack,” Louis calls out to a guard at the end of the hallway. “When the rest of the family gets here, please remove this paper. We’d rather not have people knowing where we stay.”

“Yes, Mr. Tomlinson,” Jack replies in a thick accent, nodding, before speaking into his headset.

Louis opens the door and lets Harry go in first, the latter whose jaw drops immediately. The room is— _astounding_. The smooth walls are painted white and ardent red respectively, with plaques and framed jerseys adorning the surfaces. There’s a long, oval table in front of the terrace with chairs, and Harry wastes no time, dragging Louis by the hand to the outdoor balcony to get a good look at Old Trafford stadium.

“Holy shit!” Harry is amazed, wide eyes taking in the empty, bright green field and the vacant red seats. “We’re so close to the seats, too,” he states, noticing the seats below them.

“Level three is the best—you get privacy, but you’re still close to the heart of the game, the fans.”

“This is crazy.” Harry leans back against his man, taking everything in. He hardly notices when the door opens behind them and the rest of the Tomlinsons come in, rowdy and excited for the game.

“Do you like it?” Lottie asks, suddenly next to them on the terrace.

“It’s wonderful. Great view,” Harry states eagerly. "I'm excited!"

“'M glad you could make it!” The icy blonde girl smiles sweetly. She lights up. “Maybe after this we could go shopping! Manchester has some great shops, ‘course it’s not London, but we—“

“Maybe next time, Lots,” Louis interrupts. “Harry has plans for today.”

Harry twists in Louis’ hold to face him. “I do?”

“Whatever.” Lottie rolls her eyes, turning and going back to the main room.

“Let’s go back inside,” Louis, suggests, winking cheekily. “It’s getting a bit chilly out here.”

Inside, waiters are setting steaming food platters on the oval, glass table. Johannah and Dan are talking quietly to the newest member of the family, Niall, whose freshly bleached hair is covered with a red and black Man U snapback. The twins are sat on the couch, flipping through the channels, and the older girls are each on their phones, looking completely bored. The older boys, Liam and Zayn, are at the bar, laughing with the bartender.

“Wait.” Harry pouts, digging his heels in the carpet. “What are my plans for tonight?”

The older man laughs, his eyes going squinty and small, looking utterly beautiful. He leans closer, hands cupping Harry’s jaw, lips pressed to his cheek. “You, spread out on my bed, in nothing but those little red, silk panties…and a Manchester United jersey.”

Harry pulls back, glaring at his older boyfriend through narrowed eyes. He fails to ignore the twitching in his borrowed, Spider-man boxers. “I don’t even have a jersey—“

“Now you do.” Louis reaches around him and grabs a signed jersey from the pile on a counter, pressing the red cloth to Harry’s chest. “We’ve got plans tonight, babe, don’t forget.” He presses a kiss to his lips and scurries away to investigate the food.

They all gather around the large table minutes later, Harry ending up in Louis’ lap gleefully. The food is delicious and gourmet, and while he doesn’t even know exactly what he’s eating, he just knows it’s yummy. After a while, the guys take their food out to the balcony to watch the warm-ups, but Harry decides to stay inside, chatting with Lottie and Fizzy, braiding a French plait into Daisy’s fine hair.

He hasn’t gotten a real chance to talk to Johannah, but he’s surprised and pleased to see that she’s not outright rude to him anymore. She does ask him about school and classes and all the usual boring, motherly stuff during dinner. She isn’t rude or cold, but she isn’t gushing to him, either. It’s a start, Harry knows, and it’s much better than before. Baby steps, he thinks. 

The game starts soon enough, and Harry plops down on Louis’ lap again on the terrace, overlooking the field. There are fans decked out in the ardent colors beneath them, and a shy Niall besides them in one of the chairs, a cold beer in his hand.

“…then he kicks it in there, right?”

“That’s right.” Louis nods. He pats Niall on the back. “You know a good amount ‘bout this, are you sure you’ve never played?”

“I don’t know.” Niall shrugs, squinting at the field. “I don’t remember.”

It makes Harry sad to know that they’re so close to Niall’s birthplace, but the blond knows nothing of it. It brings a smile to his face, however, looking between Niall and Louis, at the bond they’ve created in the short amount of time Niall's joined the family.

By the time the second half starts, Harry wants to go explore. He shifts on Louis’ lap, but the older man pays him no mind, staring intently at the game unfolding beneath him. Experimentally, he licks his neck, but all Louis does is grunt. Sighing, he stands from the man’s lap and pokes his cheek. “I’m gonna go get a hat or something for my step-dad down at the stands. I’ll be right back.”

“Yeah, ‘course.” Louis nods and snaps his eyes away from the field. He lifts his hips up and pulls out a small stack of red fifty notes, handing them to Harry.

He takes them hesitantly. “I’ve got my own money, I don’t need—“

“Just take it, please.”

“Fine.” He smacks his lips wetly against Louis’ stubbly jaw. “I’ll be back.”

“Why don’t I come with you?” Johannah speaks up from where she’s standing at the doorway of the balcony. She smiles lightly and turns on her heel, heading for the main door without waiting for an answer. Like Johannah Tomlinson accepts the answer no, either way.

“Oh, alright,” Harry says lowly, making his way after her, heading out into the long hallway again.

“Do you like football?” She asks, making conversation.

“Uh, yeah, I like to watch. My step-dad, Robin, he’s a big fan.”

“You don’t play, then? Are you good?”

“With my knowledge and understanding of this football game, I feel like I should be a lot better at football.”

Johannah makes this weird noise and her eyes squint up like Louis do and— _oh_ , she’s laughing. “I understand what you mean. All the boys play football for fun, but Louis was always very serious about it; it’s very big in our family. I know it means a lot for him to have you here, with the family.”

Harry nods, the corner of his lips turning up, staring down at the clean boots he pulled on at last minute. “I wasn’t sure if I wanted to come,” he speaks honestly. He can feel Johannah's inquisitive gaze on him.

“If it means anything, I’m happy you changed your mind.” Johannah pauses as they get into the empty elevator, a bulky man sliding in with them. “I know I said some things to you, Harry, which I should’ve never said. I’m not going to apologize—I don’t apologize for something I felt strong about, or something that I know I was in the right with.”

“I’m not asking for an apology," Harry says. He'd never expect one from a Tomlinson. "I just—I want to know why you treated me like that, when you fawned over Sophia and Perrie—Perrie who you sent to _New York_ because she knew—”

“Like I said that day in my office, Harry. Louis, my son, he’s different," is Johannah's cryptic reply. 

Harry leaves it at that when the doors ding open and they step onto a busy, open floor filled with stands and vendors and fans all together. He looks down at the colorful bills in his hand. “I don’t really know what to buy,” he admits, “but Louis gave me all this money.”

Johannah rolls her eyes, a replica of her stubborn son, and leads Harry to the souvenirs. “Louis has always been like that. He doesn’t really show off, but he has no problem being seen as a big spender. You’re going to have to spend the very last pence, Harry.” She smiles widely, nothing but pure amusement behind her blue-gray eyes.

They spend a good amount of time at each stand, spending Louis’ money with glee. Harry buys a red, white, and black striped beanie with the Manchester United logo for Louis, he picks up a hoodie and a cap for his step-father, and a white, extra-large shirt for himself to sleep in. They get foam fingers for the twins and a colorful soccer ball for Niall. 

Before they head back to the box, they stop at a snack stand, getting in queue for some buttery popcorn and cold drinks. Conversation flows surprisingly well with Johannah. She asks about his family, his mom in particular, praising Anne Twist for her hard work on the force as a woman. Talking about his mom makes Harry prouds, and he knows Johannah understands, as a mother and a strong business woman herself. She tells him about Niall and how he’s settling in and how she just _had to_ adopt the Irish boy, giving him a fresh start.

(It kind of freaks Harry out how damn similar Louis and his mother are, in both looks and personality. From the blue irises to the hooded eyes to the jaw-lines, Johannah and Louis look more alike than any other sibling. Liam looks nothing like his mother, and the girls only take after her eye color— _Fizzy_ is the only one of the girls who resembles both Johannah and Louis, with her eye structure and face shape. Johannah speaks like Louis, too, with the slight Chicagoan accent, with the fast wit and dry humor.)

They’re in the middle of discussing Louis and all things Louis, when there’s a shout and a loud, drunken laugh. The laughter stops suddenly and someone speaks: “Johannah! Johannah Tomlinson, what a bloody surprise!”

Before Harry can even blink, the woman is pushing him behind her, a shift so sudden and smooth he hardly realizes it. The movement doesn’t do any good with Harry being several feet taller than the petite woman, but he doesn’t understand the motive behind it until a man—beanpole-like and scruffy in the face—pops up in front of them. The man stinks of alcohol, but his suit—looking odd and formal besides the red of Manchester jerseys—is flawless, not a single wrinkle. Even his pocket square is pristine. 

“Johannah!” the man booms again, in his English accent. “What in the barmy are you doin’ here, eh?”

Johannah tenses, an unbreakable look falls on her beautiful face, clearly irritated. “Oliver,” she greets politely, “always the pleasure.”

“Well, damn!” Oliver grins. He moves forward but hesitates, like he wants to reach out and hug Johannah, but thinks better of it. “Now, lemme tell ya somethin’,” he slurs. “I wanted to get up on ya box, but those damn bodyguards of yours wouldn’t let me through! Jus’ wanted to drop a hello on that family of yours.”

_Bodyguards? There are bodyguards?_

“That’s what they’re there for, Scott,” Johannah says coolly. Her face doesn’t break from its composure. “It’s family day, something that’s very important to us. I’m sure you can understand.”

“Ya, sure, but they were actin’ like proper cunts!” Oliver Scott stumbles, but that doesn’t stop him from taking another swig from his beer bottle. “Oi, did you get that last shit I sent you? It was a real bitch with that shipment. I had to—“

“You know I got just fine,” Johannah interrupts with an icy red glare. “I don’t understand why you’re bringing that up, here of all places, when you know perfectly well that I received and thanked you for it.”

“Alright, alright.” Oliver holds up his hands. “’M just, you know. I'm happy you got it! I'm happy with life, just, you know. Cruising through life, like one should. Have you heard from my siblings? _We_ don't have a family day. Elliot is a dick and Dylan is a right whore!”

“Scott, lower your voice.” Johannah hisses. “You’re in public! There are children here.”

“It’s a bloody footie game!” Oliver hisses back loudly. He takes another gulp of his beer before his dilated eyes narrow, zoning in on Harry. “Well, well, well. Hello there, pretty. Who are you?”

Harry looks back at Johannah who only nods slightly in response, not helpful one bit. “I’m Harry,” he answers civilly. He hesitantly shakes the dirty man’s hand.

“Harry is part of our family,” Johannah tells Oliver callously, surprising Harry. “You will treat him with the utmost respect, as if you were talking to one of my children.”

“Family?” Scott repeats, clearly intrigued. He doesn’t let go of Harry’s hand, gripping it tighter, his thumb caressing Harry’s skin. “I’ve not seen a pretty, little thing like you ‘round here before.”

Johannah snaps, pulling Harry’s hand out of the grip. She grabs onto Oliver Scott’s wrist and Harry can only watch as the man’s face contorts with pain. “Did you not hear what I just fucking said?” she spits at him. “Don’t even look at him, you disgusting prick.”

“Wot!” Oliver frowns drunkenly. “Does he have a lass or something? A lad? Such a pretty thing…”

“Keep your hands to yourself, do you understand me?” Johannah raises an eyebrow, dropping Scott’s wrist.

“I don’t take orders from you, Johannah,” Oliver Scotts snarls. “I do as I fucking bloody please. You think you’re so damn high and mighty ‘cause you own everyone, but lemme tell ya one thing, Tomlinson: you don’t own me. If my father was here—“

“Well, is he?” Johannah asks. “Is the great Sir Oliver Scott here?” She makes a show of looking around the crowd. “Oh, no, he’s not—he’s dead. Your father was complete and utter filth, Scott, and we both now that. I did what I had to do, and I’ve never regretted it nor will I ever.”

 _What the fuck?_ Harry stands immobile besides the feuding two. It sounds like Johannah and Oliver Scott go way back, like she had something to do with the death of his father. It all sounds insane, as it goes through Harry's ears. Does Scott have something to do with Louis and all the blood and the guns? Is he one of the dangers that Louis wants to keep Harry away from?

“I—don’t—take—orders—from— _anyone_!” Oliver Scott growls. He settles his watery gaze on Harry, leaning forward. “What do you say? Hm? Dinner for two?”

“No—no, I don’t think so.” Harry swallows. He can feel his heart going fast as the man looks at him with lustful eyes, licking his lips in a gross matter. “No, thank you.”

“Oh, c’mon, pudding.” Oliver sneers, abruptly pulling Harry off his feet and smashing him to his chest. He squeezes Harry’s behind roughly, the boy yelling in pain.

There’s a loud click and time stands still. Slowly, Oliver Scott lets him go, Harry scurrying back behind Johannah. His eyes widen in shock as he notices the heavy, white gun Johannah presses to Scott’s stomach, pushing the barrel into his clothed skin.

“I don’t think I made myself clear,” Johannah says gently. “If I ever see you near a member of my family, I will blow your stomach out. If I ever see you harassing a member of my family, I will blow your grimy, little heart out. If you _ever_ talk, or fucking look at Harry, or my girls, or myself—I will blow your brains out before you can even say _mate_. Do you understand me now, Scott?”

Oliver Scott nods mutely.

“If,” she continues, “you have something important to me, you can say it to my sons. I don’t have the _bloody_ time to deal with _rubbish_ like you.” She pushes Scott away and the gun is magically gone, just like how it appeared.

Oliver locks his jaw before spitting at the ground. He takes another drink of his beer before turning away, stumbling back to wherever he came from.

Harry looks around the crowd in a panic, but no one is looking their way. It’s like no one saw anything, like everyone around them just froze. Johannah doesn’t speak to him, which he’s certainly okay with—what would he even _say_? He doesn’t think his brain to mouth filter is correctly working, anyway. They stand in silence until they finally move to the front of the line, where they order their snacks. He's suddenly not in the mood for nachos anymore.

The elevator ride is tense. He mentally panics when two burly men the size of small houses squeeze in with them, but Johannah eases his mind, quickly ordering them around and handing over some of the souvenirs to rest their own arms. _Right_ , those are the bodyguards Scott mentioned.

Back at the box, everything is normal. There’s excited yelling in the balcony and a bored Lottie stretched out on the couch with an iPad in front of her face. Harry stands there, watching Louis’ cheerful face break out with passionate screaming, cheering on his team. He doesn’t know what to say, or if he should say anything at all. Is there some sort of code he should follow for events like these? The last thing he wants to do is start drama, or bring Louis' good mood down.

“What’s up with you?” Lottie snaps him out of his thoughts. She shoots him a worried look. “Did something happen down there? Did Ma say something to you?”

“No,” Harry tries to assure her. “No, everything’s fine. Just a little dazed, that’s all.” He smiles at her as convincingly as he can. “Everything’s good.”

Lottie nods but doesn’t look swayed, going back to the iPad. “Whatever you say, Harry.”

There’s an empty chair besides Louis outside, so he sits in that instead of his warm lap. He quietly munches on nachos, ignoring his boyfriend’s heated stare. He sighs as Louis’ arm wraps around his waist, leaning into his touch. Should he say something? What if Louis' asks? Harry knows Louis would see right through him.

“I want,” Louis mutters. He opens his mouth wide, eyes crinkling when Harry lets out a giggle, stuffing too many nachos into his mouth. Louis mumbles what Harry thinks must be _thanks,_ and he nods, kissing his moving cheek. “Is that all you got?” Louis asks after he swallows, nodding at the gooey, cheesy plate.

“Nope.” Harry smirks. He pulls out the beanie from his back pocket, pulling off the current beanie of his boyfriend’s head and tugging on the Manchester United one. “Much better.”

“Thanks for that.” Louis rolls his eyes, smoothing down the hair that sticks out in the front.

They watch the rest of the game on the balcony, but with a look inside the main room, one can tell things are a bit tense. Johannah isn’t in lively spirits anymore, looking angry as she talks to her husband, and the older girls are quiet. Zayn meets Harry’s gaze through the glass doors and frowns, before sending him a short, perplexed smile.

They leave the stadium as soon as the game is over. It’s dark outside and Manchester fans are loud with happiness on the streets thanks to the 4-2 winning score, but it’s quiet inside the Tomlinson cars. The flight back to Chicago passes by with a blink of Harry’s eyes and soon enough they’re stepping out of the jet and onto land. He hugs everyone goodnight—even Johannah, who hugs him surprisingly tight and looks at him with regretful eyes.

Harry watches from the passenger seat of Louis’ Range Rover when Johannah pulls Louis aside. He sees pure, unfiltered anger cross his boyfriend’s angelic face, sees the clenching of his elegant hands, the tight pressing of his pink lips. He doesn’t feel an ounce of remorse for what threats Johannah spit at Oliver Scott—even after all the hours that have passed, he still feels _dirty_ because of those drunk hands—but he knows the disgusting man won’t have it easy.

Harry flinches when Louis rips the car door open and slams it shut. He turns the SUV on without a single word and peels out of the airport like a drag racer. Harry has seen fury in many different forms and sizes, but he has never seen it painted so well like right now on Louis Tomlinson.

“Um.” Harry scrambles to think of something to say. “Lou? Are you okay?”

“No,” Louis snips. He slams his palms on the steering wheel with emphasis on each word. “Why—didn’t—you—say— _anything_?”

“I—I didn’t know what to say! Your mom—”

“My _mom_ should have shot him right then and there! He fucking put his dirty hands on you and you fed me nachos!” Louis bellows.

Harry gulps. “I didn’t—I didn’t…What are you—what are you going to do to him? Are you going to _kill_ him?” he asks with a held breath.

“I fucking should.” Louis clenches his jaw and honks the horn loudly at the minivan in front of them. “I can’t fucking do anything myself _here_ , now can I? Someone should’ve told me something while we were still in the same damn country! Without a whole body of water separating us!”

Harry splutters. “I’m sorry, I—“

“You’re _sorry_?” Louis looks at him incredulously. “What the hell do you have to be sorry for? No, no, no. None of this is your fault, _gattino_ , none of it. He’s the twat who touched you. That—that— _figlio di puttana_!”

“You're overreacting," Harry preaches. "He grabbed my ass, it’s not like—“

“That’s  _my_ ass! Who the fuck does he think he is? He had no right to talk to you like that, harass you like that,” Louis rumbles, foot hitting the pedal. “I should turn this car back around and fly back to England to kill the drunken bastard.”

They stop to a halt in front of Harry’s dorm too soon. Louis only stares down at the white of his knuckles clenching the leather steering wheel. The heaviness coming from Louis' chest is the only sound between them two for a long moment. 

Harry sighs, unbuckling. “You’re not staying the night then?”

“I think it’d be best if I didn’t.”

“We had plans.” Harry pouts. He holds up the red jersey in his grip. “There are panties waiting to be torn apart by you.”

Louis chuckles. “Not tonight, baby. Okay? You sleep good for me.” He leans over and meets their lips, but it’s not sweet or passionate, it's not their usual goodnight kiss with that edge of impatience for the next time they'll meet. It’s dull.

Harry worries his bottom lip when they pull apart much too quickly for his liking, looking at Louis in the eyes. In them, he sees so much rage and even a tinge of fright. “Don’t kill anyone over me, please? Please think, Louis, okay? Nothing is worth killing over.”

“I don’t agree with that.” Louis looks away. “Goodnight, baby.”

“Night,” Harry replies with a sad smile, shutting the door softly.

The lobby in his building is empty besides the usual night guard and he slips past him to go into the elevator. That night he has trouble sleeping. Images of Louis covered with someone else’s blood spilled carelessly on him—his skin, his clothes, his hair, his lips—haunt his dreams. He can help but mull over what Louis might do to Oliver Scott, _if_ he can even do anything from so far away. He doesn’t doubt his man one bit; surely Louis can find a way to avenge him.

He finally falls asleep after hours of turning and tossing, and wakes up before noon the next day. He’s thankful that it’s Saturday, all of the flying and chaos from yesterday taking a toll on his body. He doesn’t know if he’ll be seeing Louis today, doesn’t know what state he’ll find him in. All he knows is that he doesn’t want Louis to get hurt, especially not over him, _especially_  not after something so stupid like a butt grope. He wishes Perrie were here to comfort him, or at least smack some sense into him and demand he stop moping around.

He gets dressed in a pair of Louis’ gray sweats—tight and short everywhere except the ass, because _of course_ —and his favorite lavender sweater. He grabs his wallet and his keys and slips his socked feet into some hotel slippers before locking the door. _Food_ , he needs food. He can’t be bothered to whip sometime up or order breakfast some the nearest Denny's, tummy growling, so he makes his way to the university’s cafeteria, hoping for some late pancakes or at least scrambled eggs and hashbrowns.

He wanders back to his dorm only a half hour later, definitely feeling Perrie’s absence. How is supposed to go on for the rest of the year without his bubbly friend? He unlocks the door and frowns as he hears something crunch underneath his foot. He squints at the small object on the floor, picking it up to see it’s a simple, black USB with a hot pink sticky note on it. _Download me_ , it reads.

 _What the hell?_ He boots up his computer and stares down at the note. It doesn’t look like familiar handwriting, and how did it even get in his room? Was it pushed under the door? Did someone break into his dorm? He inserts the memory stick into his laptop, watching as it downloads. There’s only one document in all of the four GB, and it’s a video.

He double clicks on it and waits barely anything as the video pops up. The screen goes dark and there’s a blurry picture of an old man with the name _Francisco De Rossi_  underneath it. _Who the hell?_ The screen goes black again and suddenly there’s a family tree diagram, filled to the brim with rich Italian names. He spots Johannah’s name besides a Felice and a Marcos, and underneath them are all the names of the Tomlinson children, including Louis’.

“What is this? Where did this come from?” Harry asks the room.

Candid pictures appear next the names, all black and white, some grainy and some in HD. The tree disappears and in comes a flurry of big, red, bold letters against the black backdrop. _Murder_. _Illegal contraband dealing. Illegal weapons trading. Gambling, fraud, tax invasion, arson_ , and many more. Murder is the one that burns itself on the back of Harry’s eyelids. Murder—Louis? 

The words fade away from the screen and are replaced by newspaper clippings, some recent, some as old as the last century. The Tomlinson name is in each of the headlines, with other words about charges that have been dropped or just simply forgotten about. There are pictures of Johannah from years back, still dressed in her expensive pencil skirts and high heels, lunching with infamous men that carry last names like Lucas or Agli _._

Harry _knows_ those names, was brought up to be wary of those men. He knows that the Lucases are some Greek mob family, has been warned by his mother many times, has cursed their names as she retold the times they terrorized the East Coast a few decades back. The Aglis are Italian, if he’s not mistaken, who run drug trades on the West Coast. Why is Johannah having lunch with those men, what does Louis have to do with any of this?

The next slide takes Harry’s breath away—Louis; Louis and his brothers and even one small picture of Lottie. There are pictures, dozens, grainy and black and white, and all so incriminating. Holding guns in gloved hands, watching a warehouse burn to the ground, blood splatters on their clothing, smeared on their sharp faces.

There’s another slide after that, a _The Manchester Times_ headline from today, Saturday. Harry feels lightheaded reading the details on one Oliver Scott, still alive but barely breathing, beaten to near-death in an alleyway. Oliver Scott, the same man that grabbed him not even a fully twenty-four hours ago, sitting now in the hospital with one broken arm, ten broken fingers, his left femur completely shattered. His jaw is broken into two, so badly damaged that it had to be wire shut.

The newsletter zooms in, reading _No suspects at this time. No witnesses have come forward_.

Harry slams the top of his laptop shut. He can’t breathe, can’t think. Louis— _Louis Tomlinson_ , he couldn’t have anything to do with this, right? _His_ Louis, is it possible? It can’t be, it can’t possibly be true. There’s no fucking way! Harry can’t believe it, but he knows. It all adds up.

Last night, when he told Louis not to kill anyone... The words just tumbled out of Harry's mouth so easily, it had shocked him. He didn't understand how he came to that conclusion, in the car with Louis and his grim face. He didn't understand how he just said that— _don't kill anyone over me, please_. How did he go from assuming that Louis was a drug dealer, to pleading that he not  _kill_ anyone over him? 

The bloodied gun on the bathroom counter, the exile of Perrie, the harsh words exchanged between Johannah Tomlinson and Oliver Scott…This is why Johannah was so cautious of him; this is why Louis warned him multiple times he was a bad person. This is why those words slipped out so easily. This is it.

He just—he needs answers, and he needs them now. He sets the laptop to the side and snatches the USB out, stuffing it into his back pocket. He grabs his keys from the table and slams the door shut behind him.

He needs answers and Louis Tomlinson has them all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)))))))))) !!!!!!!


	18. Acceptance and Assurance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Sunday! I hope you've brought the crackers, because I've brought the cheese. I don't know what I'm saying, it's almost 7 AM here. Hope you enjoy this chapter, it's a fun ride. @inhalethedark on twitter.
> 
> If you like music, check out my WKFWDF [Spotify playlist here](https://open.spotify.com/user/inhalethepuredark/playlist/2g6aC9xYleLvOIZ4VhF1g7). It has some songs that might be new to you, and some you probably know every word to. Put it on shuffle. :)  
>  
> 
> Disclaimer: Not mine! All rights belong to Johnnyboy7 on fanfiction.net. If you're confused about this, please check out my notes in Chapter One. I also don't own One Direction.

* * *

 

_“To be trusted is a greater compliment than being loved.”  ― George MacDonald_

 

 _Love_. 

Four simple letters, two of them vowels, both a verb and a noun, and one uncomplicated syllable—yet Louis has never been more frightened in his life. For over centuries, writers and poets alike have written about the magic that is love, kings and queens have declared wars and killed many innocent men to protect what’s theirs, human beings have sacrificed their lives and the lives of others for _love,_ as ridiculous as it sounds. _He_ doesn’t fucking want to know what love is, but the short word is a mantra in his mind.

Love: _a profoundly tender, passionate affection for another person_. Love: _a feeling of warm personal attachment or deep affection, as for a parent, child, or friend._ Love: _sexual passion or desire_. Louis Tomlinson: _fucked_. So wholly, utterly, extraordinarily fucked.

He blames this on Liam, of course, as he ought to, as he always does. It was his older brother who first brought up the _other_ word that sent in Louis in a frenzy, linking it to _love_ , of all things—jealousy. Oh, the sweet, sweet green monster on his shoulder.

Is it jealousy that causes a rage inside his body at the thought of another man putting their nasty hands on Harry? Is it some sort of twisted jealousy that made him call out a hit on Oliver Scott? And love—is that the feeling he gets deep in the pit of his stomach when Harry smiles at him? Is it the cause of all those late nights, when he’s lying in bed and all he can think about is his boy?

He’s only ever heard bad things about jealousy, envy, whatever one wishes to call it. Some say jealousy is born from love, spurred on by fear or paranoia or insecurities. He’s heard that it comes from self-love, not true love. The Bible states that love is not jealous. Hell, even Drake wrote _Jealousy is love and hate, at the same time_. 

Then there are the others who don’t mind a bit of jealousy in a relationship. They say that it’s healthy, knowing someone is afraid to lose you, that it’s completely okay to want to protect what’s yours. He’s read that it’s just a simple sign that shows how much you love someone. 

But was he even _really_ jealous? Louis sighs, letting the warm water cascade down his back as he leans his forehead against the cool tiles. There’s no point in denying it: everything points the same answer—he’s in fucking love. He doesn’t know what the hell to think about fucking _jealousy_ , but he’s not even going to try and confuse himself now.

“Love is worse enough by itself,” he groans into the empty shower, leaning his flushed cheek against the surface. “Louis, you idiot, you fucking idiot. You had to go and fall in love, didn’t you? You _love_ him,” he repeats. “You love Harry!  _I_ love Harry.  _Lo amo_."

The words sound scary in his bathroom, bouncing off the spotless walls, echoing throughout the large space. He’s alone now and he can’t imagine saying it out loud in front of anyone, much less Harry. God, _Harry_. How in the world is Louis supposed to deal with that? He was raised to fight his emotions and over time he lost the ability to feel for other, much less feel love. Now it’s back, hitting him with force, and he has no clue how to deal with it. In this life he leads—he can’t be in love, it’s deadly.

He knows everyone, including himself, is surprised with how long he’s lasted with Harry. He’s never given anyone else this type of time before, not ever. Harry just—he makes Louis feel good, not only physically, but on another, incredibly cheesy, level that he doesn't allow himself to think of too often. He likes who he is when they’re together, likes who _they_ are when they’re together. Harry makes him strong in a way no weapon ever has and he feels weak when they’re apart.

“Idiot,” Louis mumbles against the wet surface again before pushing off. " _Lo amo._ " He shuts off the jets and grabs his warm towel from the heating rack. In his bedroom, he pulls on a pair of black sweats, deciding to freeball it. He’s downstairs in the kitchen, preparing his second cup of tea, when there’s manic pounding on his door.

“What the fuck?” he mutters. He walks into the foyer, ripping the door open. He frowns instantly. “Harry, what—“

Harry pushes past him, clipping their shoulders together. His face is flushed pink and there’s an indent in between his neatly trimmed brows. He looks—he looks _furious_. “What the fuck,” Harry slams a small object on round, glass table in the middle of the hallway, “is that?”

“Um.” Louis is speechless. He’s never seen the boy so angry before, smoke blowing out from his ears. He didn’t even know Harry was capable of such visible rage. “It’s a USB?” he picks it up and examines it closer. “What are you going on about?”

“Did you—did _you_ send me that? Why—why would you do that?” Harry stammers, looking at him with crazed, green eyes.

“No, I didn’t send you that!” He drops the stick back on the table. He tries to step closer to his boy, but Harry only holds his hands up and flinches, stepping back. “What’s on it? Why are you so angry?”

“You!” Harry screams, vein popping in his neck. “You— _all_ of you! Zayn, Liam, _you_.” His chest heaves angrily and he abruptly drops his head in between his knees before whipping back up. “Where the hell did you go last night? You hurt that man—you almost killed him!”

Louis crosses his arms against his chest, feeling anger bubbling up inside. He’s never taken to well at being yelled at in such a tone. Besides, how the hell did he find out? “Harry, I don’t know what fuck you’re talking about, and I don’t think you do, either.”

“No!” Harry points an accusatory finger at him. “ _No_ , you will _not_ make me feel like I’m crazy, Louis! Fuck.” He grips his unruly curls, twisting in a half circle. “Did you—did you send me that? Just tell me, tell me the truth for once.”

“I didn’t send you _anything_ ,” Louis snaps. He fixes his glare at a clearly-panicked Harry. He wants to go over to him and wrap his arms around his waist, but that’s obviously the last thing the boy wants, or needs, at this point. “Are you quite finished?”

Harry’s bottom lip trembles and the elder of the two is shocked to see tears welling up in his eyes. “Oh, Louis,” he whispers. “What did you do, Louis, what have you done?” He swallows a mouthful of air, trying to control his breathing. “What did you get me involved in?”

Louis feels his heart in his throat. His boy is afraid now. “Harry…” He steps closer, reaching his arms to Harry, who only cringes at the sight of his palms. “Baby?”

“Please don’t touch me. Your hands—your hands are _tainted_. They’re covered with blood. I don’t want them near me!”

He knows. _He knows_. Louis feels everything crashing around him. He’s been waiting what feels like decades for this moment, but he didn’t want it to be like this. He didn’t want Harry be frightened of _him_ ; he didn’t want Harry to find out so cruelly. He was supposed to tell him, when the time was right, but everything in this moment couldn't be more wrong. “How much do you know?”

“Enough.” He picks up the USB from the table and hands it over with a trembling hand. “You’re a bad person, Louis. You do—you do _disgusting_ things. I—I don’t even know what I saw on that video, but it’s enough, it’s plenty. And I know—I know it’s all true.”

Louis can’t speak. For the first time in his life, he’s been rendered speechless. He can’t scammer up any excuses, because there _aren’t_ any. He grabs the memory stick and turns on his heel without a word, praying that Harry will follow him. He climbs the stairs up to his office silently, sitting down at his desk and opening up his laptop. He has an idea on what might be on this video, but he hopes it’s not too bad.

He glances up to see Harry hesitate under the doorway, a stony look on his young face. Louis locks the USB to his computer and turns to face his boy. Is Harry even _his_ boy anymore? “Are you—are you scared of me, now? Do you hate me?”

Harry pauses. “I don’t…I don’t hate you, Louis. I don’t know how to do that. I want to—trust me—I want to, so fucking badly, but I can’t.”

“But I frighten you, don’t I?” he asks with heaviness.

 Harry looks away, gaze settling on the large, glass window. “How could you not? You’re a—God; I don’t even know _what_ you are, anymore. You can’t even deny it; we both know it’s true. I—I just—I was hoping I was wrong.”

The video starts then and Louis groans when he sees his great-grandfather’s grainy picture. He kicks the desk angrily, causing the objects on it to wobble, and he drops his head into his hands. He should’ve known. It’s a video he’s seen a hundred times before, the same video they show all the rookies in Chicago’s Organized Crime, the same video they use to train them when it comes to spotting a Tomlinson.

When he pulls back from his desk and tears his hands away from his eyes, Harry is staring at him. The video is still playing, but Harry is looking at him with big, glassy, green eyes. The tall boy is standing halfway in the room, looking lost. Louis doesn’t know what to do to make this better. For the millionth time since meeting Harry, he wishes he was someone else, someone with no record, someone capable of loving and being loved, someone Harry can be proud of.

“Louis,” Harry pleads. His voice is so quiet it almost gets lost in the room. “Please—please tell me it’s a lie. Please, tell me it’s just—that it’s not real, that none of this is real, that this is some sort of bad dream. Louis— _please_ ,” he cries.

“Harry,” Louis whispers, swallowing the manically-beating heart in his throat. “Harry, I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry, but—but I can’t.”

“No!” Harry stumbles backwards until he hits a bookcase, fingers gripping the edges. “I can’t believe that, Louis Tomlinson, I refuse to. I _won’t_ believe that!”

Louis stands on shaky legs. He reaches out for Harry, but he’s too far away. Everything seems so far away from Louis, everything feels as though it’s slipping between his fingers. “Harry—“

“How? How is this possible? How are you that person?” He points a red-painted fingernail at the laptop screen, which has now gone black. “Those pictures of you—of you and Liam and Zayn, _Lottie_ —with blood on your clothes and your faces…is that you? Is that the real you, Louis? Have I been a fool all this time?”

Louis tries to speak, “I’m not—“

“I’m not done talking!” Harry glares weakly at him through wet eyes. “Don’t interrupt me, please. I—I need to get this all out before I—before I can't, before I simply just can not.”

Louis nods. “Alright, I’m listening.”

“I’m so stupid,” Harry says finally after moments of profound silence. Louis feels his heart break into pieces, each miniature part shattered and dropped onto the floor beneath his feet. “How could I be so dense, so—so fucking blind?” Harry's frame starts to tremble and all Louis wants to do is wrap his arms around him and hold him together, but he’s the reason why Harry is falling apart in the first place.

“How could you do this?” Harry asks, the heat in his voice vanished. “How can you do _that_? How can you be that type of person, Louis? You’re a _murderer_!”

“It’s my job!” Louis yells. He’s crestfallen when Harry steps away from him again, flinching at the sudden noise. “This was the life I was born into; this is the legacy my parents have left me! This is my _family_.”

“Some people leave boats or—or Princeton! Not fucking mob ties!”

“What do you want me to do, Harry?” Louis asks in earnest. Anything—he’d do anything for Harry, anything to wipe away those tears, anything to make him smile again. "Just tell me, what do you want me to do, huh?"

Harry’s voice cracks. “I—I don’t know. There’s nothing I can ask of you. This is your life, there’s nothing—I couldn’t, I don’t know.” He wraps his arms around himself, fingers digging into his shoulder. “I told myself I would stay by your side no matter what. That nothing could be bad enough to tear us apart. I thought I was ready, I thought—I thought that I could do this, but I can’t. I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

Louis can only watch as Harry digs his fingers into his shoulder blades, green eyes wet and unsteady, glancing at everything but him. “What—what do you mean by that? You can’t—you can’t be with me now? Just ‘cause of this? It’s just a little bump in the—“

“ _A little_ _bump_? This is not a little bump in the road! Why are you acting like—like this isn’t a big deal, like you’re not a killer?”

“That’s not all I am,” Louis replies, trying and failing to maintain his voice steady. “I’m more than that, I’m—“

“Part of the mob, yeah,” Harry whispers. “My mom told me about people like you, she told me how manipulative you people can be. My mom—I’m such a fool, you already know about her don’t you?” Harry laughs without humor, the pieces seemingly falling into place for him. “You knew all about me before I even opened my mouth.”

“I’m sorry,” Louis repeats. He means it. He's never been more regretful in his life. He'll repeat the words until his voice is shot, until his jaw aches, until he physically can not go on any longer. “I warned you, from the very beginning. I told you.”

Harry nods slowly. “I just…I never thought it would be like this. I never thought _you_ would be like this. I didn’t think—fuck, I just didn’t _think_.”

“I’m sorry—”

“You keep saying that!” Harry shouts. There’s anger in his eyes again, red rage filtered on his face. He steps forward until he’s front of the him, Louis shrinking into himself, until Louis can smell his sweet scent. “You keep saying that—that you’re _sorry_ , but you still put me in danger! You—with all the guns and the money and the midnight phone calls. You knew— _everyone_ knew—yet you still endangered me.”

“What do you want me to say?” Louis raises his voice. “I can only say it so many times before it loses its meaning. What do you want me to do? Tell me, fucking tell me!”

Harry pauses, stepping back. “I…I want you to tell me how to stop being scared.” His voice shakes, but he continues. “I’m scared—I don’t know you. That—that man in the video—I don’t know him. I don’t know that killer. He—he’s not you. Where’s the man I f-fell in love with?”

Louis freezes, time stops. The words in his mouth dry up and his heart stops pumping. He can _feel_ the blood draining from his face. “W-what?” His voice isn’t any louder than a shaken caress of words. Harry only stares back at him, wide eyes matching his, fingers nervously twisting the ring on his index. “What did you—what did you _say_?”

_Where’s the man I fell in love with?_

“Nothing—I said n-nothing.” Harry shakes his head frantically, curls falling in his face. He hesitates, but then he’s moving like the lightning that lit up Chicago a few nights ago, the lightning that flickered white across Harry's face as Louis held him in his sleep, shooting out the door without a second word.

It’s like Louis’ bare feet are glued to the floor— he can’t move. He’s still stuck, Harry’s words replaying in his mind like never ending-credits on a black screen. It takes a few seconds, but then his body is melting from its still stance, and he’s rushing out the door, too, stumbling down the stairs. “Harry!” he shouts. "Harry, wait!"

Harry’s head snaps up from the main elevator. There are tears trekking his pale cheeks and that’s the last thing Louis sees as the doors slide shut. He curses, throwing a fist at the sleek doors, moments too late. He doesn’t wait another second before he’s crossing the living room and running into the kitchen. He slams open another door and rushes into the hallway and down a flight of stairs to Zayn’s level, reaching the elevator. He thanks the gods above when the doors open, tapping his bare foot impatiently against the carpet until he reaches the lobby.

Bare-chested, with only a loose pair of sweats on or not, he’s not about to let Harry go just like that. He looks around the busy lobby frantically, but he doesn’t spy his boy. “Stephanie!” he yells at the startled receptionist. “Harry—where did he go? Has he left? Did you see him?”

Stephanie stammers. “Uh, yes, sir, he just left.” She points towards the left set of doors. “But sir!” she calls out behind him. “You don’t have a shirt on! Or shoes!”

Louis can only cackle as he maneuvers around people and steps foot into the cold, crisp October air. It seems unrealistic, like something out of a stupid rom-com that Lottie would love. He, Louis Tomlinson, is chasing after someone—a boy _, his_ boy—without any intention of killing him, with no gun in his hand, with no shirt on his back or shoes on his feet, just because he _loves_ him. He loves this boy. This person does _that_ to Louis, messes up his brain and his heart, and this person makes Louis do crazy things.

_Where’s the man I fell in love with?_

People gasp and move out of his way as he runs through the crowds. His bones are starting to chill and his heart is beating too fast for it to be remotely healthy, but he doesn’t care. His feet are burning from the cold, nasty cement and his whole body trembles. But Harry, he needs to find Harry.

“Harry!” he shouts when he finally spots him, fifteen feet away.

The younger man turns around in disbelief, glassy eyes raking over Louis’ bare form. He fish-mouths before whipping back around, slouching further into himself, walking faster through the crowds that have accumulated. He keeps his head down and Louis’ fists clench in frustration.

Louis’ heart drops when he sees Harry start crossing the street without lifting his head up. It shatters when he sees the bike messenger peddling furiously towards him, the man’s attention on the GPS screen glued on the bicycle.

“Harry!” He starts running then, feet painfully slapping against the concrete. He doesn’t think twice, pumping his arms as fast as they go. He reaches Harry at the same time the distracted messenger does with only a few seconds to spare to push Harry out of the way. The impact is instant, the hard material of the bike hitting him in the ribs, his head slamming backwards to crash against the pavement.

He hears shouting and feels warm hands caressing his cheeks. _Harry_. He hears Harry cry, but his words are incoherent, going in and out of focus. Louis feels white-hot pain shooting up and down his side, the back of his head throbs like its splitting open. “No,” he groans around numb lips. “Police— _no_.”

“No?” Harry mumbles in his ear, his distressed voice going in and out like bad reception. “No…I won’t, I won’t…Zayn, okay? You’ll be…on their way. Don’t worry, Lou…I’ve got you, you’re…”

The last thing he hears before it all goes black is Harry’s deep voice. _Where’s the man I fell in love with?_

The first thing he hears when he comes back is Liam. Liam goddamn Tomlinson shouting nonsense in his ear. For a split-second he wishes he had hit his head harder against the ground.

“..Fucking ridiculous, did you know that? Who the hell runs after someone in their damn sweats? No shirt! No shoes! No fucking underwear, either! And then you got run over by a Fed-Ex guy, ‘course.”

Louis groans, clenching his eyes shut, from the pain when someone—Liam?—lifts him up carefully, easing him into his bulky arms. He feels a searing pain in his left side and his head feels like someone is pounding into it with a shovel. “H-Harry?” he croaks. “Where’s—“

“I’m right here,” Harry says. Then there’s warmth spreading on the small of his back as a large hand caresses his bruising skin. There’s a burst of tepid air and his body relaxes as it touches him, calming down his frigid, aching bones.

“Ma is going to murder someone,” Liam whines.

“I’ll go see what I can do outside,” Zayn says suddenly.

 

When he opens his eyes again, he immediately regrets it. Inside, the penthouse is warm and comfortable, but the lights overhead are harsh against his sore sight. He startles when he feels a damn, heated cloth press over his cheek. He sees a flash of cute, chipped red nail polish and he looks up to meet Harry’s worried gaze.

“Hi.”

“You’re the biggest idiot I’ve ever known,” is what Harry replies. He has a surface scratch on his nose, but other than that, the tumble he took when Louis pushed him out of the way seems to have not done any deep damage.

Louis tries to sit up, but he’s only pushed back down. “Are you—are you okay? Did you get hurt?”

Harry sighs. “I’m fine. You, on the other hand, are bruised—again. You have a concussion and your back and front are scratched from when you hit the ground.”

He tries to shrug, but ends up wincing. “So I’m okay, then?”

“No, you’re _not_ okay. You’re stupid, is what you are.”

“Says the person who crossed the street without looking both ways,” he scoffs. “Weren’t you taught as a child—“

“Don’t.” Harry is stern, eyes cold. “Don’t start. This is far from funny, Louis. You—you ran after me, in the _cold_ , without a coat or _shoes_. What where you thinking? You could’ve gotten seriously hurt! You could’ve gotten hypothermia, too.”

“But I had to find you, _gattino_. I had—I need to explain things to you, I need to _talk_ to you about…about all this.”

“You should’ve just let me go…”

“I don’t ever want to do that.”

“Good.” Harry smiles lightly. “Don’t let me go. And I know that—that I said some things earlier, but. I didn’t mean them, not all.”

Oh. “Not all of them?” Louis questions hesitantly. “Which ones did you mean?”

“I did mean that one thing, though.” Harry flushes and swallows, before picking up his hand gently. “I don’t know—that video, it fucked me up. There’s a lot we need to talk about, clearly, and I’m still not sure what’s going to happen with us… I’m still scared, Louis, but I know that I do love you. I love you.”

Louis grins. He feels… _happy_ to hear those three words coming from Harry. He never thought the feeling he would get when someone told him those words would be glee. Even as his body aches and his head pounds, he’s happy. As long as he’s got Harry, he thinks everything will be alright.

Before he can say it back, there’s commotion in the kitchen, and Johannah is strolling in like an angered bull. “Where is he? Louis!”

Zayn rolls his eyes from where he’s leaning against the wall. “He’s fine, Ma. Just a few cuts.”

“I don’t care about some silly cuts,” Johannah snaps. “Louis!”

“Do you have to yell?” Louis asks resignedly from the couch. His mother’s eyes flash to his. “I’m right here, hello. Nice to hear you don’t care about your son’s injuries.”

Johannah huffs, steam almost blowing from her nostrils, and she goes over to stand in front of Louis. “Are you an imbecile? What in the world is wrong with you, Louis Tomlinson? I have around three dozen people out there asking questions and they won’t shut up!”

Lottie cackles as soon as she walks into the living room and gets a good look at him. “A—bike— _messenger_!” she gasps through her laughter. “A bike messenger!”

“Someone should write this down for the grandkids,” Liam adds in through his own giggles. Zayn only goes to stand by him, placing a hand on his back.

The doors of the elevator ding open and the twins alongside Fizzy come bouncing in. They look at their big brother in worry. Fizzy only sends him an unimpressive look and stands by Lottie, whose face is red from the lack of air.

“Are you okay, Lou?” Daisy asks, blinking her big, blue eyes rimmed with black mascara at him.

“Why would you do that?” Phoebe frowns, snuggling next to Harry at the end of the long couch.

“I was chasing after something,” Louis answers steadily, eyes flicking to the blushing boy. 

“Are you sure you feel alright?” Harry asks again, worry stitched deep in his face. “I could get you something? Some pain—”

“I’ve got it, thank you, Mr. Styles.” A voice comes from behind them all, and Dr. Ferrero smiles, moving around the nosy bunch of Italians to place a small prescription bottle on the table besides Louis’ head. “I don’t know what it is about Tomlinsons,” the family doctor chuckles, “but they always come out of these peculiar situations with light bruising and nothing else.”

“It was a _bike messenger_!” Lottie erupts into giggles again, hiding her face in Fizzy’s shoulder.

Liam laughs mischievously. “Next time you go running after someone in big sweatpants, maybe you should have underwear underneath just in case you get hit by a bike, hit your head, and pass out. A good portion of the city saw your bare ass.”

“Now he can be a real Kardashian.” Lottie grins wickedly.

“Anyway, he’s fine,” Dr. Ferrero announces, interrupting the laughter at Louis’ expense. “I’m sure you all know the signs of a concussion and Louis here has a great one. The scratches on his back aren’t _too_ deep, so nothing a bit of oxygen water and some bandages can’t fix.”

“Wonderful.” Johannah puts her hands on her hips and glares down at her son. “Can we talk about the serious issues now? What were you _thinking_?”

“I wasn’t,” Louis murmurs honestly.

“Yes, I’ve noticed. That seems to be happening quite an awful lot lately, hasn’t it?”

“You’re making my headache worse.” Louis sighs as Harry pulls a pair of wool socks on his recently washed feet. “Ma, I don’t think people talking is the most serious issue we have at hand right now.” He pulls his feet from his boyfriend’s grasp and drops them to the floor, sitting up and trying to ignore the way the room spins.

“I think you’ve lost your damn mind!” Johannah chastens. “People talking is always a serious—”

“Harry knows about us.”

The room goes quiet. Everyone is bleeding tension, solid where they stand, and Louis can feel the heat of their stares burning his face, but he can only look at Harry. Harry, whose long curls are hidden under an olive-colored beanie, Harry who’s tugging at his red, bottom lip with one finger nervously, Harry who can only stare back at him with those moon-sized eyes framed by brown lashes.

God, his boy is so, so, so breathtaking, that it hurts every time Louis tries to look away. He’s so innocent in all of this, and while Harry said that he didn’t quite mean the things he said earlier out of anger, Louis knows there’s some truth behind his words. There’s got to be. He has every right to be angry; he was lied to, a secret so big being held from him, a secret that had to possibility to harm him, not only emotionally but physically.

But, Louis… Louis is not planning on letting him go. He stood up to his mother for this boy, he fought through blood, sweat, and tears in Russia to be able to _be_ with this boy publicly—he fucking came out for this boy, and if that doesn’t scream _I Love You_ , then what does? He’s prepared to take all measures to ensure that Harry is safe during every minute, especially now that he knows. After everything they’ve been through thus far, it’d be the dumbest mistake in the world, letting Harry go.

“How?” Johannah asks simply, her sculpted face clear of any emotion. As usual, of course.

Louis tears his eyes away from Harry to speak directly to his family. “A video, as always. Someone from the CD sent him a USB with the usual video of us on it. I assume it wasn’t hard to put two and two together.”

“Okay, okay.” Dan claps and everyone breaks their ice exterior, snapping back to life, startled. “I think we should all go into the kitchen and see what there is to eat. Daisy, Pheebs, I know you girls were hungry.”

“Knowing Louis, we can have either cereal or cereal to eat.” Lottie rolls her eyes, not moving from her spot against the wall.

“Yeah,” Liam agrees. “’M not that hungry, thanks. I think I’ll stay here and—”

“No, you won’t.” Zayn lays a firm hand on Liam’s broad shoulder and pushes him into the kitchen. The rest of the family is dragged into the kitchen, too, much to their nosy dismay. Dr. Ferrero doesn’t think twice before he’s packing up his medical bag and shuffling into the elevator, giving a short nod.

Johannah sighs and shrugs off her heavy, wool peacoat, laying it across the back of the chair she drops in. She crosses her legs and purses her red lips. “How did this happen?” she asks calmly.

“Um, I,” Harry starts nervously. He shifts on his butt until he’s squeezed underneath Louis’ arm. “Like Lou said, there was a USB. It was in my room, like someone had either broken in, or maybe chucked it underneath the crack of my door. ‘M not sure which, but it had a sticky note on it saying to watch it.”

“So you have no clue who put it in your dorm, then?”

“None.”

“I think it was Wilds,” Louis speaks up. “You know that video, Ma, you know it’s from the Crime Division. They’re the only ones who make and distribute those exact copies.”

“So now sweet Harry Styles knows about us; the big, bad, dangerous Tomlinson family.” Johannah cracks a small, crooked grin. She leans in with her hands crossed against her legs. “So, Harry, what do you think? Now that you know, how do you feel about us? Louis?”

Harry clears his throat and blinks his expressive eyes at Louis. The elder of the two shouldn’t be so worried, should he? Louis knows quite well how Harry feels, but having it said out loud…he can’t shake off the unease. While Louis might never let him go, while he might chase after Harry all over the world—through scorching deserts and crocodile infested swamps and through endless oceans—he would never fight it if Harry _wanted_ to be let go of. If Harry ever changes his mind about Louis, it would burn like lightning, and it would be dangerous for both of them, but he would never hold him back from going his own way.

“I don’t—I don’t really know _what_ to think,” Harry finally says. “I had my suspicions, but I never imagined it would be this deep. As for my feelings about Louis…” he pauses, gripping Louis’ hand tighter, but his eyes fall to the floor. “It’s hard to look at him, it _hurts_ to look at him, knowing what he’s capable of, like, knowing that—that he’s done such things…It’s unforgivable, but it’s not my job to forgive him, it’s not in my right to judge him.

“If what he’s saying is the truth, if he was born into this life, if his _family_ is here…I’m not—I can’t really do much about it, can’t?" Harry continues, biting his lip in thought. "I won’t be the person to give an ultimatum; I couldn’t do that to him.” Harry’s hand trembles into Louis’. “I’m still confused on some things—I guess I haven’t really grasped it all.”

“Are you scared of us? Are you scared of him?” Johannah asks.

“ _No_.” Harry’s head snaps up and he levels his gaze with Johannah. “I _love_ him. I think he loves me, too, but I don’t know that, yet. I thought I was—scared of him, I mean—but I know I’m not. _That_ I’m sure of; Louis would never hurt me. It might be the dumbest thing I have ever done, but I’m in love with your son, Johannah, and I trust him with my life.”

“Do you understand now why we had to send your friend away?” She questions, leaning in towards them.

“Yeah.” Harry nods slowly. “I get it now.”

“Good.” Johannah looks over at her son and sighs, leaning back in the chair. She turns back to Harry and narrows her eyes, lips turned downward. “I don’t want to do this, Harry. I don’t owe you anything, much less what I’m going to say, but we can both agree that my son trusts you and has put a lot on the line for your relationship. I must admit that I’m rather… _fond_  of you, that I do trust you, and what I’m going to tell you must not leave this room or else.”

“Or else what?” Louis quirks an eyebrow. Is his mother honestly threatening his boyfriend right now?

“No, no, no.” Harry is quick to interject, glancing back and forth between mother and son. He pats Louis’ knee twice in comfort. “I understand. I won’t speak a word.”

“Great.” Johannah stands and grabs her nude, Saint Laurent handbag from the coffee table, pulling out a small, black pouch. She tugs on the strings of the velvet material and pulls out a short dagger with a gold handle, a bright, oval ruby engraved into the middle. The blade is curved and glints with the lights above, the tip bright and incredibly sharp. “Oh, Louis, don’t give me that look. You know I need his blood.”

“My _what_?”

“No,” Louis affirms. “You don’t have to do that! He’s not going to say anything, Ma, c’mon. You said it yourself, you trust him, so why do you have to ask for blood?”

“Ha,” Johannah scoffs. “I wasn’t going to _ask_ , but sure, _bambino_ , whatever you say.” Her voice drips with sarcasm and she rolls her almond-shaped eyes. “Harry, your blood, _please_ , if you’d be so kind.”

Louis stands, toe-to-toe with his mother. “You _don’t_ need to do that. We all trust him.”

“Louis, please,” Johannah sighs in exasperation. “You know I’m being fairly lenient here. You know anyone who is not family shouldn’t deserve the treatment I’m giving to Harry. I know you,” she hesitates, “care for him. If he is willing to listen, I’m willing to make exceptions.”

“I can explain this to him! He doesn’t need to have his blood drawn.”

“ _He_ can make choices for himself.” Harry interjects, pushing Louis back on the couch, gently, and standing up to face Johannah. “Whatever you need, I’m ready. I just really need some answers.”

“Have you ever done a blood oath before?” Johannah asks with raised brows, while Louis bites his tongue. Normal people don't go around pulling daggers out of their purses to perform blood oaths. “I didn’t think so. We—us Tomlinsons—use them to seal someone into our world, to coagulate family ties. Normally, I’d be doing this only if you and Louis were to get married, but,” she chuckles, “the best thing about being the boss in this family is that I can make the rules _and_ break them all I want.”

“You don’t have to do this,” he reminds Harry urgently, heart loud like thunder to his ears. “You _can_ walk away from this right now.”

“But you might not chase after me this time, would you?” Harry asks with a look of pure determination on his soft face. He nods at Johannah to continue.

He wouldn’t, it’s true, and Louis knows that. If Harry were to walk away from him and his hazardous life, he would never run after him. He would do anything to keep Harry safe, and if that means letting him go, then so be it. But one thing is for sure, and that’s that he won’t choose for Harry, he won’t try to influence him. Whatever Harry chooses is that, and Louis will have to respect it. If he wants to do a blood oath, then fine, he’ll go along with it.

“It was very difficult to accept you in my life, Harry,” Johannah continues. “I was brought up differently than you younger ones, but I never wanted to be like my own mother. She was never accepting of her children, and I don’t want to be like her.” The woman takes a seat next to Harry. “I’ve come to terms with it and it’d be foolish of me not to realize that you will be in Louis’ life for a long time. I know all about young love and fast love and everlasting love, so if you really do love my son, you will honor this oath.”

“Of course,” Harry replies simply, cheeks flushing. 

“I think you deserve to know the truth about us, the truth about the man you love.” Johannah picks up the sharp dagger from her lap. “I don’t want you to believe everything you hear about the Tomlinsons, and I definitely don’t want you to be swayed by the lies spilled by the Crime Division or anyone else.”

“I understand,” Harry says quietly. To Louis’ shock and admiration, Harry lets go of his hand, sticking it palm-side up underneath Johannah Tomlinson’s nose. Johannah nods and hastily swipes the knife against soft, virgin, fair skin, bright crimson oozing out immediately. Harry doesn’t moan or shake, and he surely doesn’t cry, eyes hardly watering, and Louis is amazed by the man he is able to call his.

Johannah smiles at them and stands to retrieve a white, silk napkin from her purse. She hands it over to Louis, who quickly presses it to Harry’s bleeding hand, the white material soaking the blood up like a sponge. Johannah drops the dirty dagger back into the black sleeve and into her purse. His mother leaves the room for a few seconds afterwards and when she comes back, all of the immediate Tomlinson family is following. They all spread around on the large couches and plush chairs, the twins sitting at their mother’s feat.

“Shall we begin, then?” The lead of the family asks the crowd.

The whole detailed process takes hours. They only stop when the Chinese take out comes, and even with a mouthful of noodles, Harry listens carefully. It’s not what Louis was expecting. There are no tears, and while it’s all serious, a few laughs escape here and there. Harry acts tough and he doesn’t shrink back, but Louis feels his bandaged hand shake in his grip, and he knows Harry is frightened.

Louis only watches him as Johannah tells the Tomlinson story. She doesn’t shy away from the brutal truth, from the acts of crime they commit, from the cold murders that stain their hands. She talks about each role the Tomlinson boys play, even the role Lottie will have to fill in the near future, but she leaves out Louis and his _Il Principe_ position. Louis doesn’t have a clue how he’s going to pop that one to Harry, but he hopes it won't be soon.

“It’s not so horrific, now, is it?” Johannah asks with a tickled expression once she’s finished. The sun is starting to set over the city of Chicago and there are dozing twins on Liam and Zayn’s laps, but she is finally done.

“We sound _really_ bad,” Fizzy speaks up from besides her mother on one of the big couches. “How are you not running to the hills right now?”

“We’re not _that_ bad,” Lottie argues. She lays her head on Harry’s shoulder. “I know it sounds really shit—“

“Language, Charlotte.”

“—but I promise it’s not that awful. It’s just a lot to take in and you found out in such a revolting way… No one would be angry or disappointed or _anything_ if you wanted out, y’know. It’s just who we are, Harry, it’s our blood.”

Harry nods slowly. His face is as white as snow, his forehead wrinkled like he's over-processing the myriad information he's been told in the last few hours. “Yeah, I—yeah.” He squirms against Louis and pulls his hand away, and the older man feels his body go cold with the abrupt distance. “I need to think—I need to _start_ thinking. I need to— _go_.”

Instead of grabbing his coat from the foyer closet like Louis thinks, and head out the door in a hurry, all Harry does is stand, walk to the liquor cabinet by the bar, grab a bottle of tequila, and go out to the balcony. The glass door closes softly behind him and they all see when Harry plops down on one of the chairs outside. It's too much for him, Louis knows. Harry needs to let it all sink in; the last forty-eight hours heavy on his shoulders. 

“That was—that wasn’t _so_ bad.” Liam lifts his head up from Zayn’s shoulder. “Could’ve gone worse, fuck, _should’ve_ gone worse.”

“It must be harder on him since Perrie is gone,” Zayn murmurs. His eyes are closed and he runs thin fingers through Daisy’s fine locks. “I still don’t think we should have sent her away. He could've had someone here to rely on.”

“Too late now,” Liam quips, furrowing his thick brows. “Want us to bring her back or something?”

“Don’t be a jealous idiot. All I’m sayin’ is that it would be easier for Harry if he had someone who knew, or sorta knew, what he was going through. He really depended on her.”

“Uh, ‘m not being a jealous idiot, you—“

“Is he going to tell his Ma?” Niall interrupts. His enormous blue eyes are set with worry, fingers repeatedly touching the ends of his golden blond hair, his nervous habit.

“No.” Louis stands up, stretching his legs. “No, ‘course not.” He grabs the thick, gray cashmere throw from the back of the couch, Harry’s forgotten beanie, and heads to the terrace. Outside, his boyfriend is throwing back a disgusting mouthful of tequila like a college girl during Spring Break, free curls splaying in the wind.

“I don’t know why I got this,” Harry mutters without looking up. He lifts up the bottle of gold liquid and frowns deeply. “I don’t even like tequila, it tastes like shit.”

Louis squeezes in next to him on the chair. He grabs him by the waist and lifts him up, settling in, and dropping Harry on his lap. He tucks the throw around them, protecting them from the bitter wind, before pulling the ribbed beanie on top of his head. Harry’s long curls still peak underneath and with the cashmere blanket pulled up to his chin _and_ on Louis’ lap; he looks like a right angel.

“Why?” Harry asks. He sneaks his arms out from underneath the throw and settles them on top of it, meeting the mouth of the bottle to his lips. He swallows and wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. “Why?” he asks again. “Why do you do that? Why haven’t you stopped or—or _something_?”

Louis drops his lips to Harry’s shoulder. “’Cause I have to, baby,” he states.

“No, you don’t,” the boy argues. His eyes won’t meet Louis’, staring like glass at the city surrounding them. “You don’t _have to_ do anything. That’s not even what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

“How—how could— _can_ you do all of this? How can this be your life, like?”

 _How_ does Louis explain it? _How_ does he tell his faultless, stunning, sharp boyfriend that he likes what he does, that he doesn’t have a problem killing people who cross him or his family, that he knows he's a murderer, and a crook, and complete scum? _How_ does he say that without sounding like a sociopath, without discrediting how hard he’s worked since he was a teen, without losing Harry?

“I’m not—I don’t—I can’t— _how_ do I tell you?” He stutters, speechless, unable to come up with something for the first time in his life. 

“Just do it, please.”

“I like it.” Louis blurts, and oh _god_ , he’s done it, Harry is going to leave, and Harry will never look back. But Harry stays still in his lap, doesn’t move, nor does he make a move towards the tequila. “I’m not an angel; I’m not perfect, I’m not normal. I wasn’t raised like you, yeah? I like what I do, I like scaring people, I like eliminating people who pose a threat to my family or simply get in the way of what I want. I like making money and running this business with my family, I like knowing how great we are at what we do. I’m good at it and I fucking _like_ it.”

Harry finally turns to look at him, and Louis was right: his eyes are wet and his cheeks are too red and he’s so beautiful, breathtakingly so. “Did your mom—did she make you do that? Did she make you k-kill people?”

“No.” Louis takes the glass bottle from trembling hands and sets it down on the table besides them. “No, she never did. My biological father and Ma, they trained us, they taught us, but we always had a choice. I’ve always been good with weapons and fighting and intimidating people. Harry, you’ve got to understand that I’ve wanted this since I was nine years old.”

“But—but Lottie doesn’t seem like she wants to… _do_ that.”

“She doesn’t.”

“Then? Then why is she?”

“She made up her mind already. Lottie…Lottie is difficult,” Louis tries to explain. He doesn’t understand it himself. “Ever since she was little, she was Daddy’s Princess, and that’s what our father wanted. When he died, she took it extremely hard. She wants to be Johannah Tomlinson 2.0 now, but she’s not like Ma at all; her heart isn’t cold. She has love and compassion and she’s not meant for this at all. She's a sweet girl, much like you.”

“Oh,” Harry breathes out. He leans back against Louis and closes his eyes. “Louis, don’t—don’t _you_ have love and compassion? Is your heart cold, too?”

“No!” Louis is quick to deny it. “No, I’m not—of course I have love and compassion, I have—I do, I have that. It's just _different_. My heart isn’t cold, it’s beating and alive and it’s _hot_ , and it’s all ‘cause of you. You have to know, _gattino_ , that I have never felt this way about anyone before, not anyone.”

“Oh, yeah?” Harry asks in monotone, reaching out for the tequila again. “What’s that like?”

“It’s nerve-wracking,” Louis admits. He watches the smooth white of Harry’s throat as he swallows the hard liquor, the way his plump lips engulf the mouth of the bottle. “It’s the most frightening thing I have ever experienced. I have had thousands of loaded guns pointed at my head and thousands of powerful men with their hands around my neck, but that’s nothing compared to what you do to me.”

“Telling someone that you’re worse than a loaded gun isn’t such a great feeling,” Harry mutters.

“I don’t think you're understanding me. Being with you scares me, but it makes me the happiest I have ever been, H. There was a time, when I was nineteen, twenty, when I spent everyday smoking weed, doing coke, and I thought I was in heaven. I thought I finally felt _something_ , some sort of happiness my brain would allow. A complete haze through a joint, a rolled up fifty dollar bill—those were some pseudo happy days, but they don't hold a candle to how I feel now, with you by my side.”

“Louis…”

“Harry,” Louis pleads. “I fucking love you. I—I _love you_.”

He’s expecting to feel fireworks now that he’s said it. He _wants_ something out of a rom-com, cheesy, and perfect, and almost too good to be true. He expects Harry to throw the bottle down and turn to him, smashing their lips together in a wet liquor embrace. He expects the boy to wrap his arms around his neck and _kiss kiss kiss_ him until their lips are numb, then he expects him to say it back, something like _Oh, Louis! I love you, too!_

He doesn’t expect Harry to snort, roll his eyes, and take another pull of the strong, Mexican liquid—but that's what happens. A bit anticlimactic, if you ask Louis.

“No, you don’t,” Harry exclaims dully. “Louis Tomlinson, you don’t love me.”

“Uh.” Louis bites his lip, feeling terribly awkward with a pinch of disappointment. “That wasn’t really the reaction I was expecting,” he admits.

“What?” Harry laughs humorlessly. “What were you expecting?” He twists around to look at him better. “Did you want me to kiss you and shout to all of Chicago how much I fucking love you, too? How can I do that when I can’t even think straight? When my damn mind is yelling at me, begging me to leave this, to leave all this bullshit behind, to leave _you_ before I get seriously hurt. It's fucked up."

Harry looks down at his bandaged hand and his bottom lip quakes. “I can’t even believe this is real, how is that possible? How is _this_ possible? I love you so much and I shouldn’t! I shouldn’t be able to do that when I know what you do! Your hands are beautiful and they’ve touched me _everywhere_ and I love it and I love you, and I hate that! I’m trying so, _so_ hard to move on with this, to wrap myself around everything, but it’s hard.”

“I wanted you to leave,” Louis confesses. “I wanted to never see you again but now I don’t know I could live without you.”

“Such a fucking sap,” Harry mumbles. "Fucking cheesehead." 

“But it’s true! I don’t even care how sappy I sound and—doesn’t that say something to you? If you leave right now...” Louis inhales deeply. “I told myself I would let you go, if that’s what you want, I just don’t know how I’d do it.”

“I don’t want this!” Harry snaps. He chucks the tequila bottle at the crystal-glass fence and it shatters into pieces, glass brilliantly shimmering on the tile. He jumps from Louis’ lap and the throw falls to his feet. “How could you _do this to me_?”

“I—I don’t know,” Louis breathes out. Harry stands in front of him, hands on his hips, lips red and bitten and angrily pouting. 

“ _You don’t know_?” The teenager repeats with disbelieving, green eyes. “You don’t fucking know? You want to know what _I_ don’t know? I don’t know why I can’t just fucking walk out of here and never come back! I don’t know why my heart feels like a marching band drum every time I see you, and the worst thing is that I don’t know how to _stop it_. I don’t know how to stop l-loving you and it might fucking kill me.”

Louis stands on shaky legs and trudges over to Harry. The younger boy doesn’t flinch backwards when Louis grabs his hand, so he places the other one on his waist, pulling him closer. “I meant it, Harry. I think I love you.”

“You _think_ you love me?” Harry pulls back with a deep scowl on his face. “What the hell does that mean? Either you do or you don’t, Louis. God, you do this _shit_ and you can't even tell me if you love me or not?”

Louis groans and drops his head to Harry's chest. “I don’t _know_.”

It’s incredibly frustrating not knowing. He fucking hates it. He hates not being sure of himself or a situation, because he was taught to be sure and certain about _everything_ , one hundred percent. But today he’s been so uncertain and so damn defenseless and it’s maddening. It’s infuriating not knowing what’s going to happen, or what to do, or how to feel, or what to _say_. He doesn’t even know how to speak to Harry right now.

“You don’t know?” Harry repeats. There’s so much hurt in his eyes and it feels like he’s slipping right out of Louis’ fingers, again. That's the last thing Louis wants. “Is there anything you _do_ know? Maybe this has something to do with you never being in a relationship before or something, but you shouldn’t tell someone you love them if you’re not completely sure about it, Louis. That’s really, just—shitty.”

“But I _am_ sure of it!”

“Louis—“

“A profoundly tender, passionate affection for another person; a feeling of warm personal attachment or deep affection; sexual passion or desire—“

“Louis!” Harry pulls away from him completely. “What are you doing? Does everything have to be a riddle with you?”

“I Googled it,” Louis replies lamely. “I Googled _love_. I do—I _love_ you. I just don’t know how to express it, how to show you. I don’t know if I should be doing something different or maybe I should tattoo your name on me? I heard people do that when they’re in love. Get a pet together? I don’t know what I need to do for you to understand that I do, that I really do love you.”

“If—if you love me,” Harry steps forward, “you will _not_ get my name tattooed on you—never, ever.”

“But—“

“If you love me,” Harry continues, licking his lips. “If you love me, stop thinking about it.” He takes Louis’ hand and drags them back to the chair they were first sitting on, picking up the cold, abandoned throw and wrapping it around them. He plops himself back down on Louis’ lap and sighs. “Do you know how _I_ know that I love you?”

Louis shakes his head, immensely curious. “How?”

“I haven’t left yet. I should’ve been gone a long time ago, before I even find out you were in the damn _mafia_. I can’t leave because I love you so much, and I know that if I leave I won’t be by your side and just thinking about that—just thinking about that makes me hurt _everywhere_. The truth is that no matter what you do, no matter how much blood you’ve spilt, no matter who you _are_ , I will fucking love you.”

Louis is thunderstruck. _Where’s the man I fell in love with?_ _No matter who you are, I will fucking love you._ He leans forward to press his nose to Harry’s jaw, controlling his breathing. He matches his heart to the beat of Harry’s and exhales slowly. “Thank you,” he finally croaks out, his throat suspiciously dry. “Thank you, I—thank you so much.”

He feels Harry body shake with light laugh. “So,” the younger boy questions. “Don’t think about it. Do you love me? Or are you not ready yet? Both are perfectly okay, more than okay.”

“No, I—,” Louis stops. He’s sure of it. This is one thing that he hasn’t second-guessed, one thing that he’s more than positive about. This _thing_ —with Harry—is more than certain, solid like the ground beneath their feet. This _relationship_ they have is diamond. “You’re my kryptonite.” He nuzzles against Harry’s strong jaw. “You make me so weak, frozen, sometimes I can’t breathe. But you make me stronger, and I should never be scared of loving you, should I? ‘Cause we both know that without you I’m not me. It's like you—you make me stronger.”

He feels Harry’s breath catch above him and he shuffles around until his hands are cupping Harry’s face, their white clouds of cold mixing together. Harry’s eyes are as big as the full moon above them, shining bright, wet with unshed tears, and so incredibly beautiful. They’re green like nature in the summer, with gold like the Rolex on his wrist around the iris, and just being able to look into them makes Louis feel powerful, almighty.

“Is that so wrong?” he asks against cherry, chapped lips. “Is it so wrong?”

“No,” Harry replies urgently. “No, no. Don’t even think that.” He presses a sweet kiss to his lips, then another, and then a third. “I hate what you do, Louis. I won’t make a secret of it, but it’s you…It’s either you or nothing, and it’ll always be you.” He shrugs. “It’ll just take some time getting used to.”

“I can’t even phantom the fact that I thought about letting you go.” Louis furrows his eyebrows in incredulity. “Imagine if I had? All the rest of my crimes don't come close.”

Harry laughs, his dimple making its first appearance in the night. “I wouldn’t have lasted, babe, don’t worry. I’d come back, pounding on your door to let me in.”

For the millionth time today, he can’t help but count his blessings. Harry Styles, Harry fucking Styles, is sticking by his side. He _loves him_ , and he hurts when they’re away from each other, and how did Louis get so damn lucky? There’s this beautiful boy straddling his lap, kissing him with such hunger his lips might go raw, might bruise, and all Harry will do is bite them and giggle when he moans from the pain.

He reaches around to grope Harry’s ass, groaning when the younger man bites down on his neck hard enough to draw blood. He takes it one step further, squeezing his hand in between the fabric of Harry’s boxers and his warm skin, kneading the soft flesh. With one hand on his waist, he helps the eighteen year-old settle comfortably on his lap before he moves, shifting his hips upwards and—

“Ma wants to— _oh_.” They look up, flushed and startled, to see a sneering Lottie leaning against the door.

Harry ducks his head into Louis’ neck, trying to stop the manic giggles escaping him. “Louuuuu,” the boy whines into the crook of his neck. His words are slow and slippery, the tequila clearly taking effect. 

“Leave us!” Louis orders. He throws a pillow from the near chaise lounge at his younger sister, who artfully ducks and  ridiculously.

“Can I get you guys anything? Some snacks? A condom? Let me know!”

Louis deadpans, "Lottie."

“What?” The blonde girl huffs, eyes dancing with amusement. “You think I would pass a crowning moment like this and _not_ quote _Mean Girls_? Brother, you don’t know me as well as I thought you did. Anyway, you really shouldn’t be fucking dry humping each other while everyone is still inside, you filthy animals!”

“She’s right,” Harry sighs, pulling away.

“No. No! _No_ ,” Louis refuses, keeping him glued to his chest. “Charlotte, I swear to—“

“Whatever.” Lottie waves him off. She plops down on the lounger besides them and laughs as Harry reluctantly peels himself away from Louis, sitting straight in his lap. “It’s boring in there, and Zayn and Liam are making googly eyes at each other. They’re almost as gross as you two.”

“You know about them?” Harry gasps. 

“Yep,” Lottie answers. She picks at her nails with a bored expression. “Didn’t come as much of a surprise, to be honest, but—“

“Do we really have to talk about this now?” Louis interrupts with annoyance. “Harry and I were in the middle of something important.”

“Important?” Lottie asks back, bemused. “’M sure you can wait an hour or so more to fuck each others brains out. I’m sure you’re _dying_ to have celebratory sex or truth sex or makeup sex, or whatever, but you’re gonna have to wait.”

“No,” Louis states dryly. “I’m not waiting on anything. Why are you still in my house? Leave."

“No.” Lottie smiles sweetly. “I wanted to welcome Harry to the family, officially. I mean, damn, what a great story, right? Son of the mob boss, son of a police officer—real Romeo and Juliet shit. Better than ma and papà don’t you think?”

Louis groans and throws his head back, hitting it against the hard spine of the chair. “Lottie, honestly. I don’t want to get into all of this.” He wants to spend some time with his boy, now that it’s all in the clear and there are no secrets left. He wants to _show_ his boy how much he loves him, prove it with his lips and his touches. Why is that so hard?

“Wait, wait!” Harry stops him, pressing a hand on his chest. “Why is our story better than theirs?”

“It’s not _really_ , but it’s almost just as good. Harry, when we say we were born into the mob, we _really_ were born into the mob. Sweet, young Johannah Poulston.” Lottie sighs deeply, as if recalling a memory. “Grandpa Poulston was a Scottish boss who immigrated to Pennsylvania when Ma was only a few months old.”

“So Johannah isn’t Italian?” Harry questions with round eyes. “But everyone made such a big deal—” “

“She’s a lot like you,” Louis interrupts. “Hardly had any Italian in her, but just enough to get by.”

“Yeah, so, as I was saying. Ma and our father, Marcos, met when she moved from Philly to Chicago for school—much like you, Harry, actually,” Lottie says, thoughtful. “She knew right away who Marcos was— _everyone_ knew who Papà was.” Her white smile is serene. She pulls her knees up to her chest and continues.

“Papà didn’t want to be in the business, flat-out refused, right Lou? He used to tell me he wanted to be a singer, actually.” Lottie laughs, a spitting image of the late Marcos Tomlinson. “Ma met Uncle Felice first, Li’s dad. She didn’t love him, but Grandpa Poulston wanted to get closer to the Tomlinson's, wanted an inside look, kinda wanted to get a feel at them, I guess. They dated for a year before Ma got pregnant with Liam and so they got married, like very proper Catholics, and during that year Papà was out of the country. He was back in Italy with great-grandfather Francisco.”

“What happened when he came back?” Harry asks, completely immersed in the story. Louis smiles, caressing his cheek. It’s sublime to see him so interested in his family; incredibly wonderful that he gets along great with his family. Louis' grateful; he doesn’t know what he’d do if it was the opposite. It just wouldn't work. 

“They fell in love,” Lottie sighs regretfully. “But Ma had Liam, and Papà Marcos knew that Uncle Felice loved her. They secretly wanted to run away. Papà didn’t want anything to do with the business, so they dreamt of running away to Mexico, live in Acapulco with the sun and the beach and the white, hot sand. Then _nonno_  Adamo got murdered, and Uncle Felice was next to take the throne.”

“Johannah couldn’t leave then, could she?” Harry guesses. Under the blanket his hand grips Louis’. “She stayed, with Liam and Felice?”

“She had no choice.” Lottie shrugs, picking at the fabric of her jeans. “She couldn’t leave with the Boss’ son. They would find her and Papà and kill them both.”

Harry nods and his eyebrows furrow in confusion. “Then how—?” He glances from Louis to Lottie. “How did Johannah and Marcos end up together?”

“Uncle Felice got murdered,” Louis answers simply. He holds back a chuckle at Harry’s startled expression. “Our father didn’t want to be a part of the mafia, but after the deaths of his father and his older brother, he had no choice. Either he had to take the position of boss, or it would be handed down to someone in the extended family. Great-grandfather Francisco De Rossi wouldn’t allow it.”

“Yeah, that,” Lottie agrees absentmindedly. “So they were finally able to be together, Ma and Papà. They had a quick wedding and a few months later out pops this _testa di cazzo_!” She beams a touch too widely, her tongue pressed against her teeth. “Then me, of course—the light of their lives.”

“But your father?” Harry turns to Louis with a sad turn of his lips. “He passed away, too?”

“Heart attack," Lottie mentions.

Louis snorts, shooting his sister a dubious glare. “Yeah, _that_.”

“Don’t!” The teenager glares at him through a thick curtain of black lashes. “Don’t start with that, Louis Tomlinson.  _Vaffanculo, stronzo_ _._  I will shoot your balls off.

“Start with what?” Harry asks quietly, seemly ignoring all of Lottie's Italian vulgarity.

“He thinks Papà didn't have a heart attack," she explains shortly. 

“I know he didn’t.” Louis shrugs. It was very difficult thing to come to terms with. After all the fighting and hiding they had to do, he doesn’t understand how his mother could kill the man she supposedly loved enough to hypothetically run away with. He might understand the death of his Uncle Felice, sure, but his own father? Was Johannah so power-hungry at one time that she would kill off the father of her children, the man she supposedly fought to be with?

“What about Grandpa Poulston?” Harry changes the topic, surely feeling the tension rolling off the two siblings. “Where is he?”

“Six feet under,” Lottie answers. Now it’s her time to feel uninterested. “Papà killed him. Grandpa Poulston was furious that Ma married Uncle Felice and when Liam was one, he came up to Chicago threatening her, yelling that she was a traitor. Ma was with Papà that day, Uncle Felice was gone a business trip, and Papà shot Grandpa.”

“Oh, uh.” Harry gapes, blinking slowly. “You’re both so nonchalant about it?” He turns to Louis. “ _Why_ are you so nonchalant about your father killing your grandfather?”

“He wasn’t a very nice man,” Louis supplies. "It's no use crying over spilt milk."

“It was either Papà—or Uncle Felice on the surface—or Grandpa Poulston. Ma had to make a choice and she chose love.” Lottie's grin is beatific. “Ma loved Papà Marcos enough to choose him over her own blood. Sometimes blood ain't thick enough, huh?” She shoots them another look before shivering and standing. She hugs a shocked Harry and glares at Louis before goes back inside, leaving the couple alone once more on the lounge chair.

“She’s really dramatic; you shouldn’t ever listen to her.” Louis tries to make a joke out of it, but Harry isn’t having any of it.

“Is that going to be us?” His voice is high and panicked and he clutches at Louis’ forearms, nails digging into the skin. “So much death and lying and—what would I ever do if someone—if someone t-takes you away from me?”

“I won’t allow that,” Louis promises, eager to calm Harry down. His voice is slow and steady, and as reassuring as can be. “No one is going to lay a finger on me, _or you_ , and I can swear by that.”

“Don’t swear.” Harry lowers at him. “You can’t promise something like that, you don’t _know_.”

“I can, Harry.” Louis pulls him closer to his chest, pressing chaste kisses on his cold cheeks. “C’mon, let’s go back inside before we freeze to death. It’ll be okay.” He lets Harry pull him off the chair and lead them back inside. Once in the warmth, they don’t pay any mind to the family members lounging around, Louis instantly pulling them upstairs and into the library.

“You really want to read right now?” Harry raises his brows in curiosity.

“I’ve got something to show you.” Louis grabs the ladder and wheels it over to a certain spot. He climbs it easily, reaching the very top shelf, where he’s thumbing at the books until he sees the correct one. Like the very cliche man that he is, he pulls on the worn spine of the book and three bookcases over, the book shelf slides backwards, opening like a door. Ah, good ol’ Ralph Waldo Emerson always does the trick.

“Oh, god,” Harry giggles, his eyes lighting up. He holds Louis’ hand once he’s back on the ground. “I didn’t know people actually had these. It’s like Scooby-Doo.

“Zayn and I also have a Mystery Machine,” Louis adds in good spirits. "If you think this is cliche, you should see the secret vault behind my family portrait at _Fiction_." He leads Harry into the clean, blank, white space, and the latter only looks around in awe. There’s a round vault on the furthest wall and he leads Harry over to it, letting the small machine beside it scan his eyes before punching in the security code.

“You are aware that you _are_  a walking cliche, right?” Harry asks as he steps into the dark room behind the steel vault once Louis heaves the heavy door open. “Secret rooms behind bookshelves, Italian mob family... Wait, what is this?” He spins around in the dim setting before settling confused eyes on Louis.

The elder of the two laughs and flips the switch on. Instantly, cool light flickers into the room, enhancing the thousands of weapons shining on shelves and hung up on the walls. Guns, guns, guns in every square inch of the hidden room, much to Louis’ delight and Harry’s cautious surprise. They range from tacky with encrusted diamonds that cost more than Harry's life, to beautiful, solid gold, as small as Louis’ hand to being the length of his arm.

“Um, okay,” Harry breathes out, failing to hide his edged apprehension. He fish mouths, locking in on the weaponry, running smooth fingertips over the cool surfaces, and pretending not to be shaking in his sneakers. “I see why all the secrecy is needed. Maybe cliche isn't so bad.”

“This is my area of expertise,” Louis tells him. He leans against a marble counter, watching his boy. Harry's interested, overwhelmed, never seeming to pause on one gun for too long before examining the next with his inexperienced eyes. There's a little flutter in his stomach that Louis won't acknowledge, a little tickle in his throat as he watches Harry with his pale fingers caressing the cold skins of Louis' weapons. He never knew how much he needed to see his boy surrounded by his favorite toys. He likes it too much. 

“This is what you know best? Guns?”

“Mostly, yes. There are over a thousand guns in here—of all types—plus explosives and all that extra, fun stuff.”

“Fun, right," Harry replies lowly, not intending for Louis to hear. "How—how many?” Harry turns to him, eyes wandering all over the panel of Louis’ face. Louis shies away from the sucrutiny, the exciting feeling inside him quickly being replaced with something awfully similar to unease. He can’t meet his boyfriend’s calculated gaze. “How many people have you killed? C’mon, Lou, I know you—I know that you know the _exact_ number.”

“Harry…” Louis glowers. He doesn’t want to say that. He doesn’t want to give Harry another bullet point to add to his hypothetical list of cons against him. "Contrary to popular belief, I don't know the exact number. That's more Liam's thing.”

"You know, Louis," Harry pushes. Louis doesn't want to bend, but it feels like he doesn't have any other choice. "Just tell me."

“I’ve been doing this since I was fourteen. I don’t know. Perhaps more than a hundred, around a thousand. Perhaps more than that. Like I said, I don't like to keep count." 

Harry whips around to hide his expression, but Louis doesn’t miss the glistening in his eyes. “Fourteen?” he croaks out. “You were just a kid! I can’t see it, I can’t see fourteen year-old Louis Tomlinson, holding a gun in his hands, terror on his face—I can’t even see it now, and it’s right in front of me!” Harry wraps his arms around himself, staring down at a revolver displayed in a glass case. “Don’t you feel like a-a murderer? How can you just kill like that and move on? You don’t care about the lives you take?”

“I think you’re under the assumption that I kill anyone who crosses my path.” Louis’ brows furrow and he takes timid steps closer to Harry. He doesn't like where this is going. Every little bit of new information that Harry grips onto frightens Louis. “I kill disgusting, filthy assholes, Harry. When I was younger, sure, I felt something, remorse maybe, but I quickly learned that the lives we take have done more bad than good.”

“You can’t just play God, Lou,” Harry whispers, staring down at the spotless floor. “As much as you might think, you're not God. But you like it, you said? You like the killings? You—you _enjoy_ it?”

“Yes,” Louis answers quietly, albeit honestly. “I hurt those who pose a threat to my family; to my brothers, my sisters, my mother," he tries to explain. "Sometimes people get in our way, sometimes they piss us off. It's business."

“And Niall? Does he know about this, about what you do? Is he involved, too?”

“He hasn’t made a choice just yet,” Louis answers. “He knows everything, even did a blood oath like you did tonight. He’s a Tomlinson now with the adoption, but he still has a choice. We’ve taken him out to see what we do, but he has yet to kill.”

“Oh.” Harry nods and starts to walk again, going up and down the aisles, peering down at the weapons displayed proudly on the shelves. It’s quiet again, just the squeak of Harry’s sneakers, until the young boy speaks up again, picking up a simple glock from underneath the display. “My mom has one of these.”

“Glock 17,” Louis informs. He walks over to him, pressing his front to Harry’s toned back, hooking his chin on his shoulder. “That’s a police favorite.”

“How long did you know my mom was a cop before I even told you?” Harry blurts out. He stands still against him.

“A while, really, not that long. Johannah did that background check on you and she didn’t fail to inform me about your mom on our way to Russia.”

“My mom’s a cop…but you didn’t even say anything.” Harry turns around, perplexed, confusion deep in his voice. “You didn’t breakup with me or—or anything. I could’ve been double-timing you.”

Louis shrugs. “It’s not your fault, is it? I guess I’ve trusted you since the moment I laid eyes on you—not very smart of me, I’ll admit—but I wasn’t about to break things off with Harry Styles because of his mom.”

Harry sets the gun back down on the shelf and wraps his arms around Louis’ neck. “This is so dangerous. I guess it’s best that I’ve been playing the stressed out, busy, hormonal, college freshman card and haven’t mentioned you to anyone, otherwise my mom might actually kill me,” he murmurs into Louis’ skin. "Kill me, as in dead. As in you'd be sending flowers to my funeral next, dead."

Louis bursts into laughter. “She’ll definitely know who I am. That might not be smart right now.”

Harry pulls back, smacking a big, wet kiss on Louis’ pink lips. “I just can’t let you go,” he says defiantly, pressing their bodies together. "It's insane."

A half hour later, Louis is pulling his lips away from Harry’s mauled neck, smirking at his teeth marks. Bright red and lavender purple stretch over the creamy skin covering Harry’s neck and shoulders, much to Louis’ enjoyment. He has to ignore the aching dick in his sweats, and the sight of Harry’s marked body doesn’t help one bit.

“Sorry about this.” Louis pushes wavy brown strands behind broad shoulders. He presses a sweet kiss to a blossoming violet bruise. “I think I got a little out of control.” He settles his hands on Harry’s thighs, comfortable where he is, nudged between the younger boy’s legs.

Harry smiles and leans backwards against the cabinets, squirming against the cold marble underneath him, surely starting to feel uncomfortable with a peculiar situation quickly drying in his underpants. “It’s okay.”

“Are _you_ okay?”

“Depends. Are you asking me if I'm okay because the man I love is in the mafia and an actual killer, or because said man jerked me off in his gun vault, hidden room-thing, and there’s jizz drying in my boxers?”

“Uh, good question.” Louis chuckles unsurely. “Both, I think, yeah. Both.”

“In that case... I don't know.” Harry shrugs. “I don’t know Louis, it’s—it’s _a lot_ to take in. It’s just going to take me a bit of time to get used to it but—but it’ll be _fine_.” Harry waves a sluggish hand at him. “It’s just a rather, um, basically a rather unusual job, but nothing _too_ horrible. And it's not the first time I've been in _this_ situation,” he adds, nodding down at his wet Calvin Kleins.

More than anything, it sounds like Harry’s trying to convince himself, or maybe both of them, that it will, indeed, be fine. And it just—it fucking _sucks_ , knowing that Harry isn’t sure about this, that he may be doubting them, their future—their _whatever_. What is going to be like when Louis tells him that he’s next in line, that he’s set to inherit the throne to their damned kingdom, that he’s the fucking _principe_? He doesn’t even want to think about it.

(He’s just so afraid that one day Harry will wake up and resent Louis. He’s so terrified that one day, Harry will regret him, regret their time spent together, regret his ties with the mafia. It’s the most terrifying thing, not knowing.)

“Harry,” he sighs. As much as it hurts, as much as it’s the last thing he wants to do, he has to. It’s Harry first, Harry over everything. “It is a lot to take in, but Lottie was right when she said no one would be angry or upset if you decide you can’t do this, okay? I understand if you want to take a few days to think about this, to make some choice—“

“Don’t be a twat,” Harry snaps. He looks—he looks _angry_ , like a frustrated, little kitten with his nose scrunched up and his thick, straight brows furrowed, and his green eyes turned into slits. An actual _gattino arrabbiato_. “It’s my choice, Louis; I won’t let you influence my decisions. It’s shit, okay? All of this is, like, fucking shit, but I’ll get over it.”

Louis tries to speak, “Harry, if you—“

“No, stop.” Harry covers his mouth with one of his bear claws. “It’s you, Louis, it’s always been you. I love you, yeah? I can’t just turn that on and off for whenever it’s the most convenient. You’re still you, right? The same Louis who took me to Manchester to watch _calcio_ and who not only lets me borrow some of the first-editions from his library, but reads them to me, too, who holds me really tight at night."

“You’re my little spoon,” Louis mumbles into Harry’s palm.

He feels pale, smooth skin graze his own pink lips, and he feels his heart thundering like the black sky during a storm, and he feels warmth—warmth oozing into his pores every time he breathes in Harry, warmth running like liquid besides the blood in his veins. His boy is affection and sunshine and a blissful day at the beach, and he wants nothing more but to believe that Harry is ready to be by his side even as young as he is, that he’ll be ready to reign a dynasty when the day comes.

The funny thing is that—now that Harry is looking at him like he’s a blind man seeing the stars for the first time—he doesn’t remember when he fell in love with him. He knows when he came to realization he was in love—this morning, in the shower, after stupid Liam put the idea in his head, that _cretino_ —but not when his heart decided to betray his mind and body and take the plunge, trusting this Northwestern University freshman with long curls and even longer limbs and a wacky fashion sense. He remembers their first kiss and thinking how badly he’d miss those plump, rose lips if he never got another taste.

He didn’t even know he was _capable_ of such insane emotions. _Love_ and _Louis Tomlinson_ —words that, at one point, would look wrong put together in a sentence, but now make sense when it comes to Harry Styles. It’s completely terrifying and nerve-wrecking, but even more exiting and electrifying, fraying his nerves with unknown heat and bliss.

“You’re still Louis, okay,” Harry repeats. 

The urge to kiss him is nothing new, but this time it hits Louis like a boulder. He just—he needs to _feel_ him so badly, touch him everywhere, grip milky skin with both hands, leave no inch untouched. He wants their hips to line up and their groins to press against each other, he wants Harry’s short, colored, blunt nails to dig into his bruised back, and he wants the _warmth_ to fill up any cold spot left in his body. He wants to kiss Harry deeply, their tongues caressing, sliding, and he wants the message to be clear: _mine, mine, mine, I love you, I love you, I love you_.

He wants all of that, so he does it.

 

When they come out of hiding, flushed and grinning, all of the other Tomlinsons are gone. The living room is spotless, as is the kitchen and the upstairs area, and in Louis’ phone are several iMessages from Lottie and two awfully written ones from Liam. Both siblings are idiots, Louis is now more certain than ever.

“So,” Harry starts. “I think I’ll go home tonight. It’s not because of you!” He is quick to state, pressing his hands reassuringly against Louis' chest. “It’s not because of the mafia thing or nothing like that, ‘m just really tired and I feel like if I stay here, we definitely won’t get any sleeping done. Besides, I’m pretty sure I left the blueberries out and I think they’ll go bad if—” “

“It’s fine, Harry,” Louis says, chuckling. He unwinds his arm from around the boy's waist, a throbbing ache in his back, and goes to the bar, filling up a glass of Daniels. “Don’t worry about it.”

Harry’s voice is meek behind him. “’M sorry, I’m being such an idiot about this, aren't I? I keep telling you ‘m not scared, but then I act like such a—fuck. I think it’d be best if we both slept alone for tonight…it’s been a long day.”

Louis only nods. He won’t ask. He knows Harry needs some time alone to figure out the jumble in his brain, to think things through. He pulls up Briar’s number in his iPhone and shoots off a quick text, thankful when he gets a haste reply. “I’ve called Briar, and he’ll be here to pick you up and take you back to you dorm in a few minutes.”

He watches as Harry gathers his things, plopping that beanie back on his head. They walk to the elevator together and Harry presses the down button.

“I’ll wait for you at my dorm tomorrow?” he asks. “We’ve got the Halloween party to go to.”

“Oh, fuck,” Louis curses. “I completely forgot about that party.” He wonders if the party is such a good idea, after all, with that concussion the doctor said he had and the constant hot pain shooting up his left side. Maybe fucking Harry on top of the hard marble in the hidden room wasn't such a good idea, but he'll never regret it—he made Harry cum, _twice_ , and that's like a consolation present from God for getting hit by a stupid bike messenger. 

“Well,” Harry smiles, or tries to, at least. His mouth is turned more into a grimace than an actual grin. “We had a lot going on today, and yesterday, too, so I can't blame you. Just—it’ll all take some time to get used to.”

“Nothing is really going to change,” Louis says, trying to reassure him. “Actually, it’ll stay quite the same in many ways, except now you’ll know where I’m going at two in the morning.”

“You say that, and I do believe you, Lou, but. Please give me some time, like the time I gave you.”

“Of course,” Louis mutters, nodding his head in agreement. “That’s—anything to help make this easier on you.” He cups Harry’s cheek and sighs when the boy leans into the touch. Behind them, the elevator doors slide open, but no one makes a move towards them.

“Um, I,” Harry begins, swallowing nervously. “Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“Oliver Scott—what did you do to him?”

Now it’s time for Louis to grimace. “Really? Why do you want to know about that?”

“Are you going to tell me or not? You said I could ask you anything,” Harry rebuttals stubbornly.

“Fine.” Louis clicks his tongue and crosses his arms across his chest. “Scott had it coming.”

Harry frowns. “What the hell does that mean? He had it _coming_ , so you beat the shit out of him?”

“I had to teach that fucking pervert a lesson,” he argues.

“You didn’t have to do anything! You really shouldn’t have done that to him, Louis.” Harry looks at him like a disappointed parent, like Louis is a toddler who won’t touch his peas.  Louis hates it. 

“I should’ve fucking killed that bastard for laying his hands on you,” Louis growls. “And _you_ should’ve told me the second you saw me!”

“Lou, please.” Harry huffs in annoyance. “It wasn't that big of a deal, okay? Sure, I wanted to punch him in the face for pinching my ass like that, but everything happened really fast, and then Johannah whipped out her gun and threatened him, so I thought it was over with. You should've left it alone.”

The doors shut behind them and Louis presses Harry into them, propping his arms up around the boy’s head. “I'll never leave anything alone, not when it comes to you, understand? No one is allowed to touch you but me.”

“Mhm," Harry hums. "You think I don’t know what you’re doing?” He rolls his eyes and leans his head back against the cool steal of the elevator doors. “You think you’re so smooth, don’t you, changing the subject, trying to trap me against the doors.”

“’m not doing anything.” Louis grins mischievously, wiggling his eyebrows.

Harry bites his lip. “You’re so damn lucky you’re sexy as hell when you’re jealous.”

“I’ve never been jealous of anyone, or anything, before you,” Louis confesses. “I’ve always had it all—the boys, the cars, the money—I didn’t think I was missing anything special or that all that money couldn’t buy everything. I was wrong, for once.”

“For once.” Harry snorts, sounding like a dismissal. “Lou _is_ ,” he whines. “I really need to go now, okay?”

Louis leans closer and closer, until their breaths mingle and Harry is making a face at the smell of whiskey on Louis’ tongue. “You know you can leave whenever you please, baby. I’m not holding you hostage.”

“I know.” Harry groans and lifts himself off the doors, pushing Louis back, pressing the button once again. “I've got to go, we’ve got mass bright and early tomorrow morning.”

“You know we don’t actually have to go to that, right?” Louis purses his lips in distaste. “We are adults, capable of making our own decisions, and there is no law that we need to abide by that states we have to go to church every Sunday for the rest of our lives.”

“I just got on your mother’s good side, I’m not going to threaten that,” Harry replies in a serious tone. The doors open once again and the tall boy leans in to press a quick peck to Louis’ liquor lips. “G’night, Lou.”

“Night, _gattino_.” Louis watches as Harry steps back into the elevator and the doors slide close on his sweet face. The moment his boy is gone, the man picks up his phone again and dials a familiar number. "It's me."

“ _Sì?_ ”

“Ma, we need to find out who it was that sent Harry that damn video.” Louis plops back down on the couch and reaches for his iPad. “Was it Wilds, himself?”

“ _Bambino_ , I don’t know exactly. Wilds could be behind all of this, but how could he have done it? I have two guards following Harry and they report that Wilds hasn’t been anywhere near him.”

“Damn. D’ you—wait, could it have been someone undercover? Posing as a student, maybe? Someone who wouldn’t look like the odd one out on a college campus?”

Johannah hums on the other side. “Perhaps—it wouldn’t be unrealistic. Although, I’ve never known Wilds to use under-covers before, so you should look into it.”

“It could be fucking anyone!” Louis grunts, covering his eyes with his forearm. “What do you think? There could be dozens on Harry’s trail and we’d still be clueless.”

“Louis, don’t get frustrated,” Johannah warns. “A little bit of patience can go along way. Now, listen. Someone got that USB into that dorm room, so someone has to know something. I can work on it.”

“Alright,” Louis agrees hesitantly. “Harry—he needs to be safe. That’s my main priority right now, Ma, Harry’s safety. If a dirty cop can get to him, then _anyone_ can get to him.” It feels like he’s bleeding anxiety from every pore, nerves wrecking his system. He doesn’t want to think about someone getting to Harry, someone hurting him—no, it would destroy him.

“He’s in a vulnerable spot _, bambino_. I was hoping he would go unnoticed for a little while longer, but after what you did to Oliver Scott—Louis, what were you _thinking_?—that went down the drain. Alexei Lucas has mostly heard about it all; you know he’s always in the know when it comes to the Scott family, and has surely put two-and-two together by now.”

Louis curses lowly and stands to pour himself another glass of whiskey. “If Lucas knows about Harry…”

“If he doesn’t know, then he will find out eventually, it’s only a matter of time. Either way, Harry is in danger,” Johannah affirms.

“Okay, wait a second.” Louis gulps down the bitter liquid and licks the small drop of amber above his lip. “Why did _I_ have to go rescue Harry from the middle of the damn street if you have two fucking men watching after him?”

“First, you watch your tone with me,” Johannah barks. “All of you think you can get away with talking to your mother like this? You and Lottie, especially that girl—“

“ _Ma_.”

“Rude and ungrateful, all of you—except Niall and the twins, _angeli_. Anyway, I’m going out of my way to help you and your—your boyfriend, Louis, so I’d appreciate a little thank you now and then again. Those men were instructed to keep a distance—as you asked—and that’s what they did.” Johannah pauses. “Besides, it was a _bicycle_. I don’t know you ended up hurting your self like that.”

“It _hurt_!” Louis cries, pressing a thumb on a mauve bruise on his calf. “What good are they to Harry if they can’t help him? I think I’ll talk to them tomorrow, set up some new rules.”

“No, don’t do that. I can handle it, alright? After all, Harry’s safety is now an importance to all of us. His threats are our threats now—perks of a blood oath,” she says. Johannah promptly hangs up after that, excusing herself with having to check the twin’s homework.

Louis stays seated on the couch. The whiskey in his hand goes to waste as the ice melts, but he can’t be bothered with it. The hours pass and he dozes off once in a while, always waking with a start and the same words repeating in his mind: _Harry knows_. Everything will change now that Harry is in the know, and it worries Louis. He’s never been a big fan of change, itself.

When the sun rises, he lifts himself from the couch with heavy bones, his head pounding. He can feel how different things are already, with Harry’s hesitance and worried eyes from last night, but if this—his family, his job, his _life_ —is the reason Louis loses him, well. He’ll never be able to forgive himself. He knows he has to trust Harry, because after all, they’ve already faced so many promising obstacles and no one had uttered a single word about leaving.

However, if Harry were to get hurt because of him…

He knows he has to be careful. He has to monitor just how much Harry sees and how much Harry knows, and he has to look out for him, because in Louis’ world there are no cheap shots or coincidences. The sickening need to have Harry in his life might ruin everything for them both, might tear them apart. It seems like years ago that Louis was wearing that silly shirt with _Love Will Tear Us Apart_ written in the front, but now those words might speak the truth.

What is Harry going to do or say or think when he finds out just what high position Louis holds in the Tomlinson family, about his promising future as boss? What will he feel when he sees all the horrors the Tomlinsons cause, especially when they’re not only splashed across the front of newspapers, but when Louis comes home with blood splattered clothes and warm guns? What will happen when Harry's family—his _mom—_ figures out who he’s dating?

But first, he has to make it through the Halloween party alive. The first of many obstacles he has to hurdle over. Maybe with Harry by his side, he can make through just fine.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'd like, you can leave kudos or bookmark. Thanks to everyone who has left a comment, I appreciate them so much. Feel free to leave a comment with your thoughts or questions. Thanks :)
> 
> Until next time!


	19. Witches and Goblins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Another chapter! Getting so close to where I left off before the first version got deleted :D Thank you for all your lovely comments. (If I don't reply to your comment right away and you left me something really sweet, it's bc I'm being awkward af trying to be just as sweet back and I can't handLE how nice you guys are to me.) 
> 
> If you like music, check out my WKFWDF [Spotify playlist here](https://open.spotify.com/user/inhalethepuredark/playlist/2g6aC9xYleLvOIZ4VhF1g7). 
> 
> I'm also on [twitter](https://twitter.com/inhalethedark). 
> 
> Disclaimer: Not mine! Simply rewrote and adapted it. All rights belong to Johnnyboy7 on fanfiction.net. If you're confused about this, please check out my notes in Chapter One. I also don't own One Direction.

* * *

 

_"An eye for an eye will only make the whole world blind." - Mahatma Ghandi_

 

“Is she still—?” Harry bursts into giggles, soft sound muffled by Louis’ scruffy jaw. “Is she still looking?”

Louis glances behind his boy’s shoulder at the appalled, salt and pepper-haired woman perched on the bench outside of Harry’s dorm. The lady—dressed up in a heavy, beige coat and black pumps despite the dew covering the wet city—began eyeing Louis the moment he pulled up to the curb from her spot on the cold wooden seat, and now with Harry towering over him, lips immediately gravitating towards skin, the woman’s stink eye hasn’t lessened. Louis turns back to Harry, who’s biting his puffy, bottom lip in attempt to stop laughing.

“What is she even doing here?” he asks, rolling his eyes when the lady audibly gasps as Harry presses their chests tighter together. “Isn’t a bit too early to be wandering around a cold, and very asleep, university campus?”

The younger man shrugs and leans forward, hand pressed against the cool metal of the black Range Rover, besides Louis’ face. “It is kinda odd that she’s just watching us,” Harry agrees. He leans over to close the gap between their bodies, pressing warm, dry lips to the small sliver of skin peeking out from underneath Louis’ trench coat. “I usually don’t mind a little company,” he says in between pecks to his neck, “but this is weird. Do you think she knows who you are?”

“I don’t think there’s a person in Chicago who doesn’t," Louis admits. “God!” he laughs even louder once he gets another peek at the woman’s displeased, glowering, wrinkled face. He places his hands higher up, gripping Harry’s waist, and lays his forehead on his clavicle. “I wish you could see her.”

“I don’t want to be _rude_ and just stare at her.”

“She’s staring at us!”

“Sure, but that’s because we’re a young, sexually attractive couple. You have to wonder how long it’s been since she—“

“Harry,” Louis deadpans. “I really don’t want sexual images of an old, nosy, narrow-minded lady I don’t even know. Things can’t possibly be where they originally were at that age.”

“So, are you saying you wouldn’t mind if it was an old lady you _do_ know?” Harry’s eyes are warm and clear like the ocean in St. Tropez. He laughs again, his voice bright, shunning the morning dew away. This was _not_ what Louis Tomlinson was expecting so early in the morning and especially the day after… _that_.

“Besides,” Harry continues with an easy upturn of his lips. “We all have our flaws; it comes with age, too, doesn’t it? I’ll still love you when you’re fat and old and everyone thinks you’re a joke, and your dick won’t go up no matter how much Viagra I slip you or how sexy my _La Perla_ panties are.”

Louis gasps and immediately covers up his crotch with both hands. The fact that Harry is so easily speaking about a future together, a future very, very far away—it doesn’t even phase him, slips off of him like butter, yet glues itself to his skin like an Elmer promise. “Don’t say that, he might hear you!”

Harry laughs again, his half-moons glinting brightly at Louis. “I like this, by the way. I almost forgot to tell you.” He runs a black gloved palm over the bristly hairs growing on Louis' thin face and his hairy chin, the fabric catching every few seconds.

Louis hadn’t necessarily forgotten to shave, but this morning in the shower he felt tenderness that couldn’t be due to anything but yesterday’s bicycle incident, and knew that Harry definitely shouldn’t have to see more bruises. The less visible injuries, the better—it’s quickly becoming his pathetic motto. “Do you, now?”

“Mhm.”  Harry tilts his head, his eyes narrowing as he takes in Louis’ face. “I don’t know… It makes you look—older, wiser.” The younger male shifts on his shiny, boot-clad feet and flushes. “Very _Daddy_.”

Louis can’t help the throaty sound that escapes from deep within. “Daddy, huh? Is that—is that something you’d like to talk about again? Maybe soon? Like, after the Halloween Party tonight, when we’re all alone at my place?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Harry agrees eagerly. He drops his hands to Louis’ sweater-covered chest. The cute, little bun—god, since when does Louis use words like _cute_? From thick, lumpy mashed potatoes to melted ice cream soup, just how whipped is he?—bounces along at the top of his head, his small ears perky and adorned with the diamonds he brought back from Russia. “But maybe can we not discuss this here?”

“Oh, right.” Louis grimaces and meets the inquisitive, stony gaze of the silver-haired woman. He had forgotten about her—Harry’s touch tends to do that to him, gives him tunnel vision. How can he possibly focus on anything else when Harry looks so delectable, in his usual black, skin-tight jeans and a white silk top, and his new YSL, black and white striped coat? He's a vision in monochrome.

“We should get going,” Harry sighs. “I need to make a good impression on your family since—since you know, _last night_.” He hops into the SUV with a helping hand from Louis and smiles at him in thanks before the door shuts.

“Harry,” Louis starts once he’s in the driver’s seat. The Ranger Rover purrs to life and he turns the SUV around, flipping the woman off as he passes by. He manages to see her mouth fall open so wide, for a few seconds he’s afraid her dentures might pop out. He steps on the gas pedal, sending a quick prayer to any and all Gods above to clear some of the traffic they might run into. “Being late won’t suddenly make them not trust you, Princess.”

Harry shrugs. “But it’s a horrible habit to pick up, anyway.” He looks down and picks a small piece of lint off his jeans. “We should really, um, talk about last night and what it means and how things—“

“You’ve been in a good mood since you walked out of your building, I didn’t want to ruin anything by bringing it up,” Louis says. He interrupts what was to be a ramble from Harry once they’re at a stop light by leaning over, their lips meeting in a sweet kiss. He forgets about the red light and the traffic and all of Chicago as he starts to bite a rosy, plump lip, taking it into his mouth. Horns blare behind them and they pull apart with a start, suddenly remembering exactly where they are. 

Harry laughs, his dimple waking up and settling in like a house during the winter, and it eases the haywire nerves in Louis’ body. He was a breathing train wreck about to happen on the drive over to his boy’s dorm room. He was worried about the hesitance Harry showed last night, but when Harry stepped out of the dorm building with a blinding smile and bright greens, the edge left Louis’ body and replaced it with molten chocolate. 

He clears his throat. “Alright, let me hear it.” 

“I-I had a lot to think about. And, well, I love you.” Harry swallows loudly. “You already know how I feel about you; I couldn’t leave you even if I wanted to. I mean, Liam and Zayn are together and they work together and—why are you making that face? Lou, what is that face for?”

“I just,” Louis hesitates. “I don’t want you to compare our situation with theirs. It’s completely different. Liam and Zayn both grew up in this, yeah? They weren’t together for reasons and now they are and what they’re gonna go through is going to be _much_ harder than what I went through, with the whole coming out.” He stretches out an arm and places a hand on Harry’s thigh, thumb running circles against his inner thigh.

“I know that, I just meant—they love each other so much. It’s so clear in their faces how much they _adore_ each other and—well. How did I not see it before? I know it’s different, but if they have to _see_ each other _do_ what they _do_ and they still choose to go home to each other, despite all the gore and the guns... I don’t see why we can’t.”

“Okay,” Louis agrees. "Okay."

This is going much easier than he had originally hoped for. He doesn’t like the idea of comparing his relationship with Harry to Liam and Zayn’s. While it makes him shudder and while he will _never_ admit it out loud, Liam and Zayn have always been emotionally stronger, always good with expressing their _feelings_ and emotions and all that shit. Sure, Zayn sometimes hides away in his cave, painting away the night with spray paint or acrylics. Okay, yeah, sometimes Liam will sulk and pout and throw a little Hulk-like tantrum, but they’re still better than he is. At least they have _words_ for what they feel; Louis has to fucking look them up in a dictionary.

“What else, _gattino_?”

“Uh, okay, basically—a few things.” Harry’s voice takes a serious tone and Louis can feel his heavy gaze on the side of his face. “You have to promise me one thing.”

“Anything,” Louis affirms, clutching onto Harry’s thigh a little tighter. He wishes he could feel skin underneath his fingertips, not thick denim. “What do you want?”

“I don’t want, I _need_ you to be safe.”

“Safe? Harry, I’m—“

“Shut up and listen, please,” Harry interrupts. “C’mon, Lou, I’ve seen all of _The Godfather_ movies; it’s not like you’re running a Toy’s R Us. I kinda know what happens and it’s not a very safe, is it?”

“No,” Louis mumbles, defeated. “I have a fucking great family, baby, I can reassure you I’m never alone in anything. I can be safe.” The thing is that he _is_ safe. If he wasn’t safe, wasn’t cautious with every move that he makes, he—alongside his family—would’ve been wiped out years ago. Safety is one promise that’s easy to keep. “What else?”

“Need to know,” Harry states. “I don’t want to ask you details—I probably won’t want to hear them in the first place, let’s be real here—but I don’t want to be blindfolded, either.”

“Really?” Louis quirks his eyebrows comically, his eyes glinting mischievously. “I thought you were into—“

“Stop!” Harry laughs, slapping his arm playfully. “That’s _not_ what I meant, and you know it.” The younger male controls his laughter and takes on a stern front again. “I want to know things, but not _too_ much. For example, I want to know of something before I see it on the night news. I just—I want to _understand_.”

Louis nods and takes a big, warm hand into his palm. His boyfriend looks frustrated from his own lack of eloquence, brows furrowed, but Louis completely understands. He knows this can’t be easy for Harry, accepting what Louis and his closest family members _do_ , but he’s still blown away by how Harry has taken everything in stride. If he were any lesser the man…

“You know you can trust me,” Harry says, squeezing his hand. “You don’t have to worry about my mom finding out about anything. You don’t have to worry about your family being in danger.”

“I never had a doubt in my mind.” Louis picks up their hands and kisses Harry’s smooth knuckles. “I know I can trust you, baby. I have no worries whatsoever.”

He drives with their intertwined hands on Harry’s thigh and he wonders how sad it must be to never trust anyone. His own mother hardly trusts her children and it might be the loneliest thing he’s ever heard of, but that’s what this business does to people, isn’t it? There’s always so much on the line, like money and expensive reputations and heartbeats, and trust is like a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow.

Harry is that fucking pot and Louis has fought, and will continue fighting, nasty leprechauns who try to stand in his way. It’s that simple, really.

“How have you done it?” Harry asks suddenly, his voice strident in the large SUV.

Louis shakes his head to rid his mind of any bizarre Irish analogies and glances over to him. “Done what?”

“How have you stayed out of jail for so long—all of you? No offense, but Johannah doesn’t seem like type who would last a day in those uniforms and with that nasty food—you’ve seen _Orange Is the New Black_ , right? I know Lottie has, at least—that food looks disgusting! And Zayn—!” Harry frowns in concern. “He’s too pretty!”

“He would be someone’s bitch, wouldn’t he? I can already see him getting cigarettes in exchange of—you know what, I don’t even want to talk about that.” Louis honks at the slowly moving cars ahead of them. “Johannah owns this city, in one way or another. She’s got connections everywhere, all over the world. Plus, it doesn’t hurt that there‘re a lot of rats in the police department who don’t mind taking a bite here and there. They can get rid of anything with a stack of Benjamins.”

“ _Oh_.” Harry nods in understanding and turns to face him. “That’s why he was like that,” he murmurs.

“That’s why who was like what?” Louis questions with a raised brow, turning to gaze at the pondering boy for a few seconds. 

“Um.” Harry bites his bottom lip in contemplation. “I don’t know if Sophia told you or not, or maybe Liam did, but Perrie, Soph, and I bumped into this guy in Grant Park while you were in Russia. Some police guy and—and we didn’t _bump_ into him, more like he came up and sat by me on a bench and started talking to me.”

Louis racks his brain. He does remember Liam mentioning it one night over the phone, but he left out any names and _certainly_ didn’t mention that the person spoke to Harry directly. “Did he give you a name? Do you remember what they said to you?”

Harry scrunches his nose up. “Yeah, he did. It was something like—like Wind or Wand or—“

“Wilds,” Louis guesses through clenched teeth. His grip on the steering wheel tightens until his knuckles turn white as the bland sky overhead. He has every mind to turn the car around and pay the PD an early morning visit, but there’s a confused noise falling out of Harry’s lips and a tug on their hands and— _Harry_. Harry is everything that’s stopping him from threatening to shoot off some filthy, shrunken police balls.

“Lou? Did I do something wrong?”

“No, you—nothing. You did nothing wrong.” He shoots him a hopefully warm and convincing smile before turning back to the road. He doesn’t want to make Harry uncomfortable or cause a scene in front of him, but he’s fuming. He feels the hot flow of wicked lava spread through his body and _who the fuck does Jacen Wilds think he is_?

There must be a screw or two loose in Wilds’ big head of his to think that it’s anything but completely _wrong_ to talk to Harry Styles. It’s one thing to stalk Louis or Liam or Zayn, but to have his men follow his baby sisters around like they’re _criminals_ and to go up and directly talk to Harry—that’s crossing a line. Harry didn’t have a clue as to what was going on back then, but Wilds clearly believed he did.

“Did he, uh, did he say anything to you? Ask you things?”

“Yeah,” Harry answers slowly, vigilantly. “He mentioned you straight off the bat, so I knew I shouldn’t say anything. Really shady dude.”

Louis snorts and kisses Harry's knuckles again as they pull up to the cathedral. “Good job, baby. Already acting like a proper Tomlinson.”

Harry only ducks his head, his cheeks warming up into a deep red color. It shouldn’t be so damn endearing, but fuck it—it is, it completely is.

They make it into mass with seconds to spare. The service drags on, like usual, and not soon enough they’re heading towards the cemetery to pay their respects. Johannah lets Harry place a bushel of fresh flowers on Grandpa Poulston’s tombstone, to everyone’s—Louis’—shock. Not even Sophia Smith, Johannah’s trusty assistant and the once faux love of Liam’s life, has ever gotten to touch a single petal. 

“It’s kinda messed up, isn’t it?” Harry whispers to Louis once the roses are sat neatly on the ground. The curly-head boy presses his back against Louis’ chest as they watch Daisy and Fizzy set flowers on the grave of Marcos Tomlinson. “Your father killed your grandfather and Johannah hated him, yet she always brings fresh flowers to his grave, never missing one Sunday.”

“I’ve never even thought of it like that.” Louis turns to gaze at his mother, who’s sharing a nod at something Fizzy is saying. Why does his mother do it? Is out of faith or respect? Or simply because, despite everything, Poulston was her father?

Hours later, they’re in the kitchen, and once again Louis is taken aback. He’s sitting at the island with a hard stool beneath his butt and a cold beer in his hand. His mother is cooking her famous lasagna rolls, the ones with the fresh spinach and cream cheese, but this time Harry is in there, too, mixing something delicious in a bowl. His boy is so at ease next to his mother, exchanging recipes and talking in some weird food code Louis can’t crack. Louis swears he could watch this all day long.

It seems like it was ages ago when he first brought Harry to the Tomlinson Estate and Johannah was cold, had completely turned down Harry’s proposal to help out in the kitchen and now—and now _look_. It’s amazing how much they’re alike, Harry and Johannah, that even Louis has to blink twice. They’re similar and completely opposite, but they do say men fall in love with similar versions of their mothers. Louis never believed it, but now, looking at the sight in front of him, he understands.

“I’m so damn excited for tonight!” Lottie exclaims once they’re in the living room, impatiently waiting for the rest of their family to show up for dinner. “I’m so happy Ma finally agreed to let me go to the Halloween party. I’ve been begging since I turned sixteen.”

“You’ll be strictly supervised by us,” Louis reminds the glowing girl. “Don’t think we won’t see you trying to get sneaky with the drinks, Lot.” Harry walks in just then, wiping wet hands on the denim of his jeans. He goes directly to Louis, plopping down on his lap. Who cares that they have a whole couch to themselves?

Lottie rolls her eyes, her favorite pastime activity. “I know, I know. I’m going to _Fiction_ , okay? That’s enough for now; all my friends are going to die when I post pics on Instagram.”

Liam snorts from the other side of the room, where’s he pressed close to a snoozing Zayn. “That’s exactly what I need—my younger, underage sister posting pictures online as proof that she’s in a twenty-one and over club. I know that you want to show everyone that you’re all _turnt up_ and—“

“Oh no, Liam, _bro._ ” Lottie shudders exaggeratedly. Even Harry winces. “You have to accept the fact that you no longer have swag or whatever, and that you’re closer to _thirty_ then twenty. Please. I will never have a drop of alcohol if you never say that again.”

“Wait, fuck!” Liam’s face brightens up. “Did I use it right?”

“I’ve only seen Halloween on the tele,” Niall speaks up from where he’s sitting on the floor playing with his new iPhone. He blinks up at them with round, clear blue eyes and a shy smile. “Are we going to dress up and ask for candy at houses like they do on _Friends_?”

“We don’t do that anymore,” Lottie explains amiably. “We’re too old for Trick-Or-Treating.”

“Oh.” Niall pouts and nods in defeat, going back to whatever he’s watching on YouTube. It sounds like Russian, spoken thick and rapidly. “I wanted candy. I like the chocolate ones, with the, uh, the—the caramel.”

“Listen, bro,” Liam says, patting Niall on the back. “You’re gonna go to your first Halloween party! You can have Snickers any day of the week, but Halloween only comes once a year. There’ll be girls—or boys, if you’re into them, too—and drinks. Lots of music for you to dance to. It’ll be fun, okay?”

 Niall still looks unsure, but agrees anyway. “Okay.”

“What, the kid is going?” Zayn mumbles against Liam’s broad shoulder. His eyes remain closed, lashes fluttering. “Don’t you think he’s too young for this?”

“He’s older than both Lottie and Harry.”

“I know that, Li, but not mentally. He’s still young and it can get wild in there. The last thing he needs is for someone to offer him some Molly and say it’s Smarties.”

“We’ll keep an eye on him,” Harry promises. “He’ll be fine.”

“Wait a second!” Lottie looks over her phone and narrows her eyes into slits at Louis. “I don’t think it’s fair that Harry can drink and I can’t.”

“I knew you would bring this up,” Louis groans and leans back against the couch. “Harry can do whatever he wants.”

Harry fish mouths, looking back and forth between the siblings, with worry. “Louis, it’s really not—“

“That’s so not fair!” Lottie cries. “We’re the _same_ age, Louis.”

“I really wish you would stop reminding me of that,” Louis grimaces. “If Harry wants to drink, he can. You, on the other hand, have orders from Ma. No drinking, no smoking, no sneaking off with weird boys or girls to the bathrooms. Security is going to be on your ass. Or, of course, you can go to one of your friend’s lousy college parties.”

“I wasn’t planning on drinking, anyway,” Harry says. “It’s really not fair that I can and Lottie can’t, so it’s completely all right if I skip this one out tonight.”

“Are you sure?” Louis mumbles into Harry’s curls. “Don’t worry about her, she’s just being a brat, like always.”

“Excuse—!“

Louis lifts his hand and tosses a cushion towards Lottie’s direction, effectively shutting her up. He doesn’t move from his spot behind Harry, pressing kisses to his boyfriend’s sweet skin. “You don’t have to drink anything, but there will be those fruity cocktail mixes—I know you like those—and some will have candies in ‘em, like Twizzlers.”

Harry rolls his head back and nods. “If I see something that I want, I’ll tell you. I think one of those drinks with the dry ice Zayn was telling me about, they sound interesting.”

“You mean the _Green Goblin_?” Louis lights up with an easy, almost proud, smile. “I helped name those, d’you know?”

After a delicious and hearty dinner cooked entirely by Harry and Johannah—and with only a little bit of help from Stefano when it came to the marinara sauce—they meet at the bottom of the long staircase. Lottie smiles widely (and evilly, in Louis’ professional opinion) and greets them all contentedly.

“I have taken the liberty to place all costumes on the beds of your respective bedrooms!” She claps her hands, but her smile dims some. “I didn’t think Niall was going to go, but I’m sure I can think of a last minute DIY costume for him.”

“Last year,” Louis says as they go up the final stairs to his former bedroom. “She wore a black dress, tights, cat ears, and drew on whiskers with eyeliner. I asked her what she was and she replied—very rudely, may I add— _I’m a cat, duh_. I don’t have high expectations for these years’ costumes and neither should you.”

“It’ll be fun, though, regardless.” Harry swings their hands together as they make it to the bedroom. “I like dressing up. And I saw what she picked out for me, remember? It's cute.”

When they enter the room, their eyes land on the packages on the bed. Two white, large, square boxes sit on the perfectly made mattress, one with a curvy _L_ and the other with a loopy _H_ written on the top. _Fun_ , Louis snorts. None of his sister’s ideas are ever _fun_.

“You ready for this?” Harry’s round eyes blink at him innocently. “On three?”

“One—“

“—two—“

“— _three_.”

There’s silence and rustling of paper, and soon enough Harry is spluttering nonsense besides him.

Louis is more confused than anything. In his box, surrounded by white wrapping paper, is a suit. A neatly pressed and folded, black suit with a small, wooden box on top of it. He lifts the wooden box up and peaks inside, perplexed by the fresh cigar. Louis sets the cigar back inside and unfolds the double-breasted two-piece suit, pleased to see the Calvin Klein label and not a wrinkle in sight. There’s a simple black button up shirt in the box as well. At least his little sister has good taste.

“A suit?” he wonders out loud.

“Fucking _leather_?” Harry questions besides him. "This is  _not_ what we had discussed!"

Louis snaps back to his distressed-sounding boyfriend, who is currently gapping at the black leather material in his hands. Harry holds it up to his body to show that it’s just a—a _one-piece leather suit_. The fabric is slick between Harry’s fingertips and without even seeing it on, he knows it’ll stick to every small curve on Harry’s long, thick frame. Things just got _so_ interesting.

“Well?” he urges, feeling rather impatient all the of sudden. “Try it on, what are you waiting for?”

“There’s more,” Harry mutters. He drops the leather piece onto the bed to reach deeper into his box. He pulls out a large, black utensils belt in one hand and a gold badge in the other. Louis peeks into the white box to see a pair of Ray-Ban aviators, a black, cotton police hat adorned with a gold badge, and a black baton.

“Oh.”

“Oh, indeed,” Harry replies.

They stand there in silence, looking at the police uniform before Louis bursts in laughter, his loud, high cackles chasing away any quiet in the room. Harry rolls his eyes and starts undressing, pulling his sweater off and kicking his boots under the bed.

“Don’t you see how—how _funny_ this is?” Louis hiccups. “Baby, c’mon, it’s ironic! It’s hilarious!”

“What the hell are _you_ supposed to be?” Harry asks, glancing at the spotless jacket on the bed. “If I’m a cop, you’re a—“

“Criminal, maybe?” Louis opens up the wooden box to show off the Cuban. “I don’t know about this, though.”

“You’re a gangster, Lou,” Harry deadpans. He looks back down at his costume with a torn expression, between wanting to laugh and burning the jumpsuit. “This _is_ funny, but my mom might actually kill me if she ever were to see me in this. If we’re taking pictures tonight, no one better tag me on Facebook.”

“Can you just go—go get dressed. I want to see— _go get dressed_ , please,” Louis begs. How much longer must he wait to see him in that full-body leather suit? He almost has an aneurysm every time Harry wears those YSL leather pants, despite the fact that they’re a little bit baggy on his legs. This—no, _this_ is a surely-to-be skintight, blissful experience. 

Louis suddenly remembers the small present he hid away in his closet for Harry and he presses a quick kiss to surprised lips before dashing into the walk-in. Once inside, it only takes him seconds to find the pale pink box and then he’s handing it over to Harry. “For you, _gattino_.”

“For me?” Harry takes it with steady hands and a curious gaze. He reads the brand on the top of the box through narrowed eyes but soon enough he’s flushing from head to toe and acting demure. “ _Agent Provocateur_?”

The curious boy goes to open the box but Louis stops him. “No. Put it on in the bathroom, okay? _Go_ , Harry,” Louis orders anxiously.

“Alrighty then.” Harry huffs at Louis' blatant impatience and picks up the leather suit, slamming the door to the bathroom behind him.

“Thank you,” Louis murmurs to himself.

“Not welcomed!” Harry shouts back.

Louis sighs fondly and starts to undress. He throws his clothes into his hamper and starts to dress himself in the suit. It fits him perfectly, tight in all the right places. He’s always been a fan of double breasted suits, finds something so classic and timeless about them. He slicks his hair up into a quiff and slips his feet into some black brogues. He frowns at his reflection in the mirror—this is how he always looks when it’s time for serious business.

He’s back at messing with his hair when the bathroom door creeps open, and when he turns, Harry is leaning against the door frame, a pair of black, matte handcuffs twirling circles around his index. The black leather impossibly elongates his already mile-long legs, the fabric like a second layer of skin. There’s a hidden zipper in the front that goes from the neck to the groin—incredibly easy access; how in the world will Louis be able to survive tonight?—and Harry has it unzipped until the wings of his butterfly peek out.

Harry’s voice is raspy and low when he speaks, laced with something that sends chills and thrills up and down Louis’ spine. “Handcuffs, Lou, really?” His words sound accusatory, but his gaze, flitting over Louis’ form, says much more. The younger man looks down at the pieces of metal in his hands and the corner of his lip turns upwards, smugly. “Thought you didn’t know what my costume was going to be?”

“I didn’t,” Louis admits with a bright grin. “Those were— _are_ —for tonight. Now, come here.” He watches as his boy struts towards him with a confident sway in his hips, his legs gloriously extensive and toned underneath the leather; he can almost make out the definition of Harry’s abs underneath the thin fabric. When Harry is finally in his reach, he yanks him tight to his chest, his nose immediately hiding in the smooth space behind his ear, inhaling his sweet scent, and his impatient hands instantly reach down to grope his pert ass.

Harry squirms under Louis’ grip, his loud, sudden yelp echoing through the lofty room when Louis’ hand smacks down on his left cheek. He warns, “Louis… Don’t start something you can’t finish.” Despite his words, he whimpers and drops his head to Louis’ shoulder when hands start kneading at his leather-covered flesh.

“Can’t finish?” Louis challenges. He pulls back to stare at the breathtaking, flushed, young man in front of him. He cups Harry’s chin and tugs him down gently until their minty breaths intermix. “I was taught to respect my commitments, and if I wanted to I could easily lock us in this room, handcuff you to that bed, and eat you out until you’re _begging_ me to stop.”

Harry’s breath visibly hitches and he tries to close any and all distance between them, pressing Louis against the oak dresser. “That, uh,” he stammers, blinking slowly. “That sounds—yeah, why don’t we do that, instead?”

“That sounds wonderful,” Louis mumbles into Harry’s plush lips. His graceful fingers trace every inch of Harry’s ass in the jumpsuit, pleased to find no panty marks—his boy is definitely wearing the black, lace thong that accompanied the handcuffs. “Like I said,” he continues, tucking pieces of honey brown hair behind Harry’s diamond-adorned ear before licking the shell. “I stick to my commitments…”

“Yeah?” Harry sighs delightfully.

“And,” Louis draws back with an amused grin, “My brothers are waiting for us downstairs.” He pushes Harry back with gentle hands and the boy looks at him bewildered eyes.

“W-what?” His bottom lip is jutted out, crimson and looking as soft as a rose petal. Harry looks down at the clearly-visible bulge in his suit. “Lou _is_ ,” he whines. “You’re such an _ass_.”

“You’re kinda stuck with me,” Louis says. He shrugs nonchalantly even though his own words cause flutters in his stomach. He fixes his cuff-links as he moves away from Harry and risks another head-to-toe glance at the sensual young man before hand. _God_ , he looks so— _fuck._ Did God have something to do with the angelic creation of Harry Styles, or was it the Devil, himself, creating something so sinful? He should thank Lottie for this, he realizes with a slight grimace. “Blood oath and all that.”

“We should get going,” Harry says. He pulls his zipper further down and sticks in a hand, glowering at Louis as he readjusts himself. The tall boy turns towards the mirror and rearranges his hair. Louis only watches as Harry grabs the small tube of lipstick on the dresses and lightly glides on the dusty pink color. Harry turns back around with a smile. “I’m ready!”

When they’re reaching the bottom staircase, Louis stops them. He stands on a step above Harry, making them eye-level. “You—you look _really_ beautiful,” he admits. “Sexy. You in a _police uniform_ shouldn’t turn me on this much,” he groans.

Harry’s eyes light up and his cheek redden like rouge. “Thank you. You don’t look so bad yourself, Mr. Boss-Man. I don’t see you in a suit often enough.”

“Let’s just have fun tonight, alright?”

“Deal.” Harry nods and leans forward, pressing his pink lips lightly on Louis’ clean mouth. He pulls off with a smug grin. “Besides, we have a lot to look forward to _tonight_.”

“Oi, lovebirds!” Liam booms at them from the main floor, a few steps down. He looks annoyed with his arms crossed over his bare chest and a heavy, black, boot-clad foot tapping the wooden floor. He has a bright yellow hard-hat on with luminescent orange suspenders attached to baggy, navy blue pants. “Everyone is waiting for you.”

“Calm down,” Louis orders with a huff. He takes Harry’s hand in his and leads him down the remaining stairs. He quirks an unimpressed eyebrow at his brother’s costume. “A fireman, Li, really? Could you be anymore predicable?”

Liam looks disgruntled. “Yeah, what ‘bout you? You look like a lawyer or something. You always look the same.”

“Excuse me, _Liam_ ,” Harry interrupts. He smiles down at Louis and turns back to the eldest Tomlinson. “I think Louis looks very handsome, very much like a boss.”

“Whatever.” Liam rolls his eyes and turns to critique Harry’s outfit. Louis’ ready to defend his boy from whatever idiotic things Liam may be spewing. “You—damn, Harry, you look hot.”

“I’m a cop,” Harry giggles. “I have a baton.” He holds up the black, leather object. “And handcuffs! Lou, show him.”

Louis only glares at Liam for a few seconds before obediently dangling the pieces of metal in the air. “I’m supposed to be a criminal,” he explains. “H is going to arrest me later at the club. So he says.”

Harry laughs and turns to him, biting his lip. “You’ve been a bad boy, Louis Tomlinson.”

And— _oh._ He’s never been called a bad boy before, not in that context, and he doesn’t completely understand why it sends a chill through his spine, electricity running through his veins. He likes it, and by the way Harry is looking at him—with that glint in his eyes—maybe he knows, too. He doesn’t get to open his mouth to speak, for his annoying, older brother is snickering and his little sister—the reason Harry looks like an angel in leather—is stomping towards them with an angry expression.

“Yeah, yeah, Harry looks really hot, nothing we didn’t already know.” Lottie looks up at them with hands on her hips and a furrow in her immaculate brows.  She’s dressed like the right devil that she is, with a short, bright red dress and a pair of red horns in her fine, white-blonde hair. She has a pair of high, pointed-toe Louboutins on her feet that can’t be comfortable in the slightest and a scowl on her face. “We’re going to be late,” she reprimands them.

Liam gapes at her sister’s outfit, a far cry from her usual black skinnies, tees, and Adidas. “Ma is letting you go out like _that_?”

“I’m wearing far more clothing than you are, Liam!” Lottie glowers. “At least _my_ tits aren’t hanging out. Don’t come at me with your double standards.” She reaches over and flicks Liam’s closest nipple, shrieking with glee at Liam’s startled yelp, quickly dodging out of the way and behind Louis when the oldest man tries to grab onto one of her horns.

Liam is quick to yell back. “Lou’s going to make you pick up dog shit when he’s bo—“

“I think that’s enough,” Louis interrupts. He sends both siblings a look, reminding them that Harry doesn’t know about his position in the family business. He grabs his boy’s hand and leads him into the living room, his siblings quarreling quietly behind them.

Niall is stretched out on the couch with cleats propped up on the coffee table. He doesn’t look uncomfortable in Liam’s old, white high school football uniform despite the padding in his shoulders and legs. The boy perks up when he sees them, cheeks ruddy like usual, his hair done up with gel, and a black helmet sitting besides him. Louis knows there’s a big, black, bold _Tomlinson_ on the back of the jersey, above the big number one—Liam’s old number.

“You ready, bro?” Liam smiles at their new brother.

“Yes,” Niall says, nodding pleasantly. “I’ve never been to a party before.”

“Don’t worry,” Harry grins. He drapes an arm over Niall’s bulky shoulders as they make their way through the garage and into the cool night. “As long as you don’t pass out and end up in a weird office with a bunch of creeps eyeing you, you’ll be fine.” Harry turns to wink at Louis before shuffling into the Range Rover, Niall opting to jump in the back while Lottie rides with Liam and Zayn in the Lambo.

“This isn’t just a party,” Louis reminds both teenagers as he starts the SUV and pulls out the driveway, following the taillights of the white sports car in front of them. “It’s a club. There’s going to be a lot of alcohol and grinding and drugs. I want you both to stay near, alright?”

Harry’s laugh is sweet and soft, like a cashmere scarf draped over Louis’ neck and chest, hardly weighing him down, yet keeping him warm, cozy. Harry laces their fingers together, keeping their hands on his thigh. His eyes are content, dazzling and lgreen, a contrast to how they looked yesterday while facing a potential disaster. Louis just wants to see him like this all the time; cheerful, joking, with a beam on his face and dimples in his cheeks.

“Whatever you say, _Dad_ ,” Harry jests.

Louis rolls his eyes and tries to swallow the heart rising in his throat. He fucking loves this person so much, it’s unsettling. He would do anything for him and his bad jokes and pigeon toes. And tonight, with the full moon shining above them, Harry looks stunning, so damn beautiful with his loose ringlets and pink, billowy lips, that Louis isn’t sure he’s _worthy_ of such a sight. He has the right mind to drive past Liam’s car, drop Niall off at _Fiction_ , and race back to his penthouse with his lips attached to Harry’s milky skin.

Sadly, Niall calls for his attention, mumbling something or another about cars, and Louis has to take his mind off Harry and focus on the road in front of him.

“I want one like this,” the blond says, dropping his heavy helmet to the side. He runs his pale fingers over the sleek, black leather of the seats. “When can I learn to drive? Zayn doesn’t want to teach me, says he’s not confident enough. Lottie says Liam’s a really bad driver, but he’s the one who taught Z in t’first place.”

Louis watches Niall from the rear view mirror for a few seconds, the boy looking oddly interested in the buttons by the window. “Have Ma teach you,” he offers. “’M sure she won’t be terribly angry if you wreck one or two of _her_ cars.”

Harry twists in his seat to face Niall, a pout playing on his face. “I would teach you, but I don’t have enough time, not with school and exams. Maybe during the holidays, if you’re up to it.”

“You can drive?” Niall’s eyes are wide with awe. “I’ve seen films, back in Russia, where they go really, _really_ fast. They race cops and everything!”

“We’re usually quite good at losing cops when they’re on our asses,” Louis adds dryly. “It’s in our blood.”

“I believe you,” Harry snorts. He turns back to Niall and smiles gently. “While Louis and your brothers were taught to drive like they’re in Nascar, my mother taught me the way the law intended. I’ve always wanted to drive a motorcycle, though, never got the chance.”

“Really?” Louis perks up at this new information. He can’t get the image of Harry—his sweet, darling Harry—driving on a big, black Harley with his curls blowing in the wind. It’s oddly cute and strangely erotic.

They arrive at the club in no time and find the parking lot completely packed. Louis goes around to the back and parks the Rover in his designated spot, Liam’s white Lamborghini already cooled down and empty. They step out and feel the way the music from inside the club thumps, shaking their cores inside to the beat of the song.

“The freaks come out tonight,” Louis smirks, grabbing Harry by his waist. He leans down to press a kiss to his cheek. “Keep close.”

“There’ll be candy, right?” Niall asks once their inside, scanning the room. There are hundreds of people on the dance floor, all in both unique and unoriginal costumes, drinks in their hands, grinding to the EDM Halloween mix. The floor beneath their feet shakes as waiters bustle around them with brightly colored drinks.

“Sorry, can I—thanks.” Harry grabs two glasses from a waiter in a pressed tuxed, who simply nods at Louis. Harry hesitates before handing the drink to Niall. He squints at muddy orange liquid and plops a gummy worm in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “What are these?”

“ _Witches Brew_!” Louis grabs a gummy from Harry’s drink and chews it slowly, before making a face and handing it back to him. “I always forget I don’t like gummy things. It has like, two different types of rum, lime and pineapple juice.”

“Really good!” Niall nods enthusiastically, smiling around a mouthful of striped gummy worms.

“There you are!” Liam booms from behind them, hanging his arms around Niall and Harry, a big, proud smile covering his face. “Best turn-out yet,” he yells over Otto Knows’ _Parachute_. Liam turns to Harry and nods knowingly, dragging them to the bar. “I know something that you’ll love, Styles. How about a _Piña Ghoulada_?”

Harry laughs when a foamy white drink with a speared ‘eyeball’ is placed in his hand. “Thanks, Li.” He turns to Louis and gently licks the rim of the glass, eyes fluttering when he tastes the red, sugary liquid that doubles as dripping blood. “’s really good.”

“Before I go,” Liam mutters, handing a drink off to Louis. “It matches your soul—a _Black Widow_ for my dear brother.”

Louis scoffs down at the dark martini, the liquid almost black, with small, plastic spiders adorning the glass. “You’re funny. Can you get us a table or not?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Liam shouts back, snapping his suspenders. He leads them through the suffocating crowd, careful to keep a firm grip on Niall’s shoulders. There’s a series of large booths a bit away from the dance floor, all off limit by a thick, black velvet rope, but with a great view. Two waiters stand by to fetch more drink orders and the Tomlinson’s personal security stands close, watching.

“This is all so crazy,” Harry shouts into Louis’ ear. He won’t let go of his tropical drink, his lips stained red from the sweet liquid. The bright lights flash in Harry’s wide eyes, and Louis can only smile.

“We should dance,” Louis suggests, knocking their shoulders together.

“Yes!” Harry has no hesitance, only surprise on his features. “You’d dance with me? Out there?” He nods towards the hectic dance floor.

“Anything for you.” Louis slides out the booth and holds a hand out for his boy. He looks back at Niall and Liam, the latter who quickly nods and sends Louis a knowing look. “C’mon,” he says, leading Harry out to the floor.

They dance straight through a few songs, Louis’ hands never leaving Harry’s waist, his hips, his ass, until Harry decides he needs to cool of, needs more drinks and to check-up on Niall back at the booth. Lottie is at the booth when they get there, flirting with a pair of males wearing only tiny pairs of shorts, fawning over the color of Lottie’s new hair. Liam and Niall are gone, Lottie mentioning something about Niall’s first lap dance with a dismissing wave of her hand. It had to happen at some point.

The hours pass quickly with fun drinks and a lot of simple talking between the couple. Males and females alike come up to their booth, undeterred by the scary bodyguards and velvet ropes, asking both Louis and Harry to dance, but they turn everyone down, content and comfortable in their little booth.

“I haven’t seen Zayn all night,” Harry says, leaning in close, his breath tickling Louis’ ear. “I haven’t even seen his costume. What’s he up to?”

Louis shrugs in response. “He’s sulking because Sophia is here.”

“Sophia?” Harry pulls back and looks around the dance floor. “I haven’t seen her either. Did Zayn know she was going to come?”

“She was supposed to come originally, but after Liam broke up with her, they just kinda figured she wouldn’t show up. She asked to speak with Liam, alone in his office—according to Lottie—and Zayn got pissed off.” Louis takes another sip of his beer and frowns at the woman dressed as _Mystique_ from X-men arguing with a bodyguard by the rope, pointing her electric blue fingers at Harry and him.

“Oh, hey that’s—I think that’s Jade.”

“Who?”

“Jade Thirlwall,” Harry repeats around a bendy straw. “She’s Perrie’s friend from Northwestern. I met her a couple times, really cool girl, studying music with Per, I think. Was studying, I mean.”

“Well, what the hell is she doing yelling at Alberto for?”

“I don’t know… Can I—do you mind if I—?” Harry nods over to Mystique and Alberto. Harry gives him a quick peck on the lips before shuffling out of the booth and past Lottie’s friends.

Louis watches from his seat as Harry says something to Alberto and turns to greet Mystique. They hug and Mystique compliments Harry on his outfit, Louis can tell, by the way his boy visibly flushes and turns coy. Harry throws a thumb behind him, at Louis and the booth, but Jade’s eyes widen and she shakes her head and points at someone in the crowd. They talk for a few more minutes before Harry is pulling his iPhone out from that sneaky, inside pocket around his waist.

When Harry comes back, he looks puzzled. “She wants to have lunch this week, said Perrie left some of my things before she moved out and the RA gave them to Jade. She’s um.” Harry frowns, a sad downturn of his lips. “Jade’s worried about Perrie. Perrie hasn’t called her back and, God, Louis, she’s all lonely out there, in New York, and…”

“Harry, baby.” Louis tries to give him his most reassuring smile, running a hand through his sweat-dark curls. “You know Perrie is safer in New York, at _Julliard_ , her dream school, then she would’ve been here, yeah? She’s doing okay.”

“How do you know that?” Harry glowers at him beneath his long lashes. “Have you talked to her?”

“No, but—“

“Then? You don’t know if she really is okay. She’s probably all alone and—“

“Harry, she’s doing just _fine_ ,” Louis cuts him off, his voice ending all speculation. “You think Perrie Edwards is the type of person who has trouble making friends wherever she goes? She’s surrounded by music and drama geeks just like her; she’ll have no trouble fitting in. Besides, we have someone watching over her.”

“You do?” Harry blinks at him slowly and Louis feels warmth, that cashmere scarf heating up his usually cold heart.

“Yes, ‘course,” he replies, smiling easily. “For your sake and, well, Zayn’s, too, I guess.”

“What do you mean? Zayn’s sake? Does he still—“

“Louis!” Someone screams, startling both Harry and Louis from their conversation. Louis turns just in time to see a cheerleader undo the clasp of the rope and squirm past Alberto, stomping up to the table in platforms and a too-wide beam. “Louis, ohmygod! Finally! I knew you’d be here.”

Louis swallows tightly and grimaces at his bodyguard. “It’s alright, Alberto, Chloe won’t be taking long.”

Chloe beams her perfect, white smile and waves at Lottie on the other side of the booth, who only glances cautiously at Louis and Harry before turning back to her male friends. Chloe Lucas grabs a half-empty drink from the table and continues smiling around a straw. “So, Louis.” She licks her bottom lip and bats her ridiculously thick lashes. “I’ve been trying to reach you for, like, _ages_ now. What’s going on, babe?”

“I’ve been ignoring you for, like, _ages_ now, Chloe,” Louis clips. He feels Harry stiffen besides him. “I don’t want anything—don’t you remember our last conversation?” His exasperation grows, becoming flustered at having to do this in front of Harry. He doesn’t want to be outright rude to her with Harry next to him, but. Fuck. This girl is relentless.

The tall, leggy girl rolls her eyes and picks up a half-filled drink from the table, slurping around a straw that Louis is pretty sure belonged to Niall. “Oh, puh-lease. We both know that was a total joke, Louis. What we _have_ ,” she slurs, her face slack and dreamy. “What we have is serious and special. I know—I _know_ you didn’t mean what you said that night.”

An Asian man with a build that could rival a sumo wrestler’s, dressed in jeans and white Polo, comes up to stand feet behind Chloe. His face is emotionless and angry all at once, glaring at Louis. Alberto and the rest of the guards are on standby, alert and ready. 

“Oh, that’s Billy.” The Greek mob princess waves a lazy, manicured hand at the man. “He’s my new bodyguard. Daddy didn’t like that I was messing around with the last one, Jesse. Did you meet him, Louis?” Chloe raises her eyebrows at Louis in question, but frowns. “Why don’t you call me back or anything? I just want to have a little fun, you know, like old times.”

Louis sighs. “I don’t really know how many ways to say this anymore, Lucas.”

“Say what?”

“I’m _not interested_. I have someone—I have Harry.” Louis takes his hand from Harry’s waist to wrap it around his shoulders. “Harry is my boyfriend, Chloe. Alright? I want _nothing_ to do with you.”

Chloe’s disgruntled pout turns into something ugly and vicious. She silently stares at Louis’ fingers, where they’re digging gently and reassuringly into Harry’s shoulder, for a few seconds before letting out crazed cackles. “ _What_? You mean those magazines—I read that you were g-gay while getting a mani-pedi—so you mean Stan—is this a _joke_?” she finally asks, looking between Harry and Louis with wide, dilated eyes. 

“Um, no,” Harry speaks up. He clears his throat. “No joke. I’m Harry, Lou’s boyfriend. It’s nice to meet you.” Harry holds out a hand, but Chloe just stares at it blankly before snapping her eyes back at Louis.

“Louis, look, fine.” Chloe snatches a lukewarm shot from the table and throws it back without a wince. “If you want to be g- _gay_ , that’s okay. My brother, Stan, he’s gay and I love him, yeah?”

“I _know_ your brother is gay, Chloe,” Louis reminds her. Harry huffs quietly besides him, placing his hand back onto his lap.

“But, I mean,” the leggy blonde continues. “I can totally look past this little, tiny hiccup. I know for a fact you don’t do commitment, Louis, so whoever this person is—,” she wiggles her fingers at Harry, “—I’ll ignore him. Let’s just go dance for a bit. Dance with me!” She grabs Louis’ hand and tugs, but Louis snatches it back, disgusted.

“Don’t touch me, Chloe,” he warns. “Listen carefully to me. I don’t want you; I don’t want _anything_ to do with you. Harry—this stunning, intelligent, beautiful  _person_ —is my boyfriend, and I love him,” he states proudly. With every adjective thrown Harry’s way, Chloe’s eyes get bigger and more disbelieving and he wants to laugh in her face.

“Alberto!” Harry calls loud enough to be heard over the music, with a sweet, patronizing tone in his voice. “Please take Ms. Lucas back to her own table, or wherever she came from.”

Chloe gasps as Alberto draws near, looking between Harry and Louis like she’s watching the Australian Open. “You little—!” She lunges across the table at Harry, claws out and ready to do some damage. Drinks knock over and spill, but Louis grabs her wrists before she can pounce. He stands without letting her go and Alberto grabs her by her shoulders, steadying her.

Louis leans down to speak in her ear, careful not to let Harry hear. “If you ever try anything like that again,” he speaks lowly, “I won’t hesitate to snap every bone in your body. Don’t you dare lay a finger on him, Chloe Lucas, or I swear to God…”

Chloe nods dumbly and pulls her wrists away, pushing Alberto away with as much force as she can muster. Her mascara is running black down her tan cheeks and she sniffles. “You will regret this, Louis.” She turns on her heels, stumbling lightly, with Billy following her closely.

Louis nods at Alberto and turns back to Harry. Lottie has shooed the guys in the tiny, silver shorts and is speaking into Harry’s ear. Louis sits back down, next to his boy, and takes his hand. Lottie stands seconds later and shuffles out of the booth and into the dance floor.

“You okay?” He wonders as he leans in towards Harry, wrapping his arm around his waist again. “I’m sorry, she’s—“

“That was the girl you were with that night, wasn’t it?” Harry looks at him with a curious expression. “When I was on that date-thing with Taylor, from school, you where there at Zayn’s restaurant with her—Chloe was her name, I remember.”

Louis leans back against the red velvet seat. “Yeah, she didn’t get the memo, clearly. Her whole family is a bit— _out there_ , for a lack of a better term.”

“Crazy, you mean?” Harry asks around a smile. “That was pretty crazy. She was going to attack me for just being your _boy_ friend.”

“Boyfriend,” Louis repeats. Harry leans his head against his shoulder and sighs. “We hooked up once,” he explains. “Nothing major, or anything. I told her I wasn’t interested time and time again, but she never got the hint. I messed around with her brother, Stan, but he’s not so bad, plus, you know, he has a dick. Chloe didn’t take that too well.”

“Ah.” Harry looks at the concoction of spilled drinks on the table and cringes. “Chloe and her family…how well do you know them?” Harry gives him a pointed look and Louis nods, understanding perfectly.

“They used to be family friends, but not so much lately. We’ve had a few, uh, falling outs.”

Around two in the morning, the party hasn’t stopped and the music keeps blasting high. Louis’ feet are actually starting to _ache_ from dancing—grinding, humping, whatever—with Harry for _hours_. Louis can’t understand how women, like his sister, Lottie, can dance in painful high heels for so long. Even Harry isn’t complaining, and his leather boots have a tiny, stacked heel.

Harry convinces him to go out for some fresh air, so they sneak out the back door and into the cold, autumn air. They stumble down the street together with their arms wrapped around each other, not going too far from the building, staying close enough to feel the bass shake their inside their bellies. Louis pulls out a cigarette, watching Harry wrap his coat tighter around his person.

“So?” Louis’ muscles relax as toxic smoke walks through his system, the events from earlier sliding off him. “How has your first Halloween in Chicago treated you, princess?”

Harry’s dimples pop inward and he lets out a soft laugh. “I don’t really know how to answer that question. I’m wearing this really sexy police uniform that’s chaffing my ass—a uniform my mom would not hesitate to kill me in if she ever saw it—and this really nice  _thong_ that you haven’t even seen. That and having my eyes almost clawed out by one of your ex-girlfriends; I don’t know, it’s been pretty eventful.”

“’M sorry,” Louis frowns, staring down at the cig at home in between his fingers. “I didn’t know she was going to be here, I didn’t think—“

“Lou, baby, it’s fine.” Harry’s eyes are wide and sincere, not trace of resent in them. “I know how you are and I forbid you to feel guilty about something so small. Let’s just forget about that— _her_ —and enjoy the rest of our night. I want to see Zayn at least _once_ tonight.”

“What the hell for? So you can reminisce about the first time you met?” Louis jokes, taking one last drag before flicking the butt onto the pavement. “The magical moment when you locked eyes? ‘Course you don’t remember anything after _that_.” Louis stomps on the cigarette, the heel of his shoe putting it out, and when he looks back up, Harry is gone.

“Harry? Baby? C’mon, it was funny.” Louis twirls around, confused. He squints in the darkness but sees no trace of his boy, like Harry disappeared from thin air, a magic trick. He doesn’t hear anything besides the music still pumping from inside the club, but Harry wouldn’t go back inside without telling him. He didn’t even make a single noise before suddenly disappearing.

_What the fuck?_

Louis starts jogging towards the end of the street, but even with the lamps above and a very full, bright moon, he sees nothing but trees and buildings. He goes to the other end and it’s the same thing: nothing. He goes back to the spot where they both were standing just a single minute ago and tries to control his panic, tries to inhale and exhale with calm. That proves to be difficult, as his anxiety rises—not knowing where Harry is, not knowing if he’s hurt or angry; it’s new and incredibly frightening, and he hates every second of it.

“Harry? Harry!” He continues to shout, not knowing if his boy can hear him or not. He just doesn’t understand—Harry was _right there_. He doesn’t know if he can be heard over the music and the people, but he prays Harry is close enough to be able to hear his frantic yells. He runs down a darkened alleyway with his gun raised, ready to shoot, just in case. An empty Corona bottle rolls down the pavement in the alley across, the glass clinking against small rocks, and catches his attention.

“Harry, ‘s that you? H?” He walks towards the alley slowly, cautious. There’s only silence again and Louis feels his heart shrink. Maybe it’s time to call his brothers, maybe they can—there’s movement. Louis barely catches it, but he notices the fleet movement by the light in the next alleyway out of the corner of his eye, and he wastes no time, running as fast as he physically can.

There’s a big bulky body heading the other direction, with something long over its shoulder. The body running away from him, almost as big as a small house, stupidly—and fortunately—goes under a streetlamp, and Louis notices the black leather of Harry’s costume shine with the fluorescent light.

Louis darts after them, leveling his weapon for a good shot. He aims and shoots once, twice, and the result is a groan of anguish. The sumo wrestler goes down thanks to the hit to the back of his knee, and Harry goes down, too, landing hard on the dirty cement. Louis almost stops in his tracks when he sees Harry, bound with cloth at his hands and feet, gagged by a piece of fabric. He doesn’t even think about when he finally catches up and sees the man's—Billy’s, Chloe’s body guard’s, face—and just smacks the butt of his glock into his skull with so much force, even Louis winces at the crack. 

The panic that once flooded is body is now being replaced by anger, just pure, unfiltered anger.  They tried to take away his boy, _his Harry_ , and that won’t be over with just a blow to the knee or a crack in the head. Louis pounces on top of Billy and it feels so good when his knuckles ache after one single punch to the man’s face. The anger controls his body and his fists work by themselves, punching until Billy stops struggling and his face is unrecognizable, looking similar to roadkill

Louis pants and rolls off the man. He tries to open his fists but winces at the throbbing pain, knuckles torn up and bleeding. He stands on shaky legs, his once fresh suit stained with blood and dirt and fury.

_Harry_.

Harry is lying closer to the wall of a building now. He’s not crying, much to Louis’ relief, but he blinks up at him with eyes the size of the moon above, wet and shocked. Louis advances with concern, his bloodied hands held up, his gun back in his waistband. He quickly undoes the ties and gently removes the gag from Harry’s mouth.

“Baby, are you okay? I won’t hurt you, Harry, I won’t—“

“I-I know that,” Harry whispers. His voice is low and shaken, Louis almost misses it. “That man, h-he _grabbed_ me. I didn’t even, I didn’t—I didn’t see anything, I didn’t h-hear him—came out of _nowhere_. He just grabbed me.” He’s still in a state of shock, limbs unmoving despite being free from restraints, eyes blinking rapidly.

“I know, baby, I know. I’m so sorry.” Louis wants nothing more but to take the stunned boy into his arms and hold him tight, never let him go, never let anyone near him, no one that could possibly harm him. Louis himself can’t quite believe it: right under his fucking nose, they took Harry without a single sound, without a single peep. How could he be so stupid, how could he put Harry in danger like that?

“I’m not going to hurt you, Harry, _gattino_ , okay?”

Harry’s eyes snap to his. “Why do you—why do you keep saying that? Lou, I—“

“I had to do it,” Louis stresses. He chances a glance back at the body seeping blood onto the concrete. “Please, just, listen. I—that’s my job right there, but I’m sorry, I shouldn’t—“

He’s cut off from his own rambles when Harry flings himself into his arms, latching onto his neck. Louis holds him back, so tightly he’s afraid he’s hurting him, but Harry doesn’t protest, just breathes evenly into his neck. They stay like that for a bit, maybe seconds, maybe minutes, but he doesn’t want to let go.

“Why did he do that? I don’t even _know_ him. I didn’t even speak to him!”

“No, don’t—don’t worry about that, him. Don't do that, it wasn't about you, okay. I took care of it, you’re okay.” He breathes in Harry’s scent, nosing at his curls, and immediately feels himself calm down. It’s the same reaction as to when he smokes a cigarette, or four, immediate zen. “It’s alright, I’ve got it, you’re okay. You’re okay, you’re safe.”

“’m not scared of you, Lou,” Harry says, his voice promising. “I love you so much, I’m not scared, and I could never… I love you, God, _fuck_ , I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he breathes out. “You’re worth everything."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chap should be out soon. Thanks for your comments and kudos. Make reuploading so worth it. :)
> 
> Until next time!


	20. Guns and Glory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those asking, this is where the kinky shit begins. :) Also, we're getting so close to new chapters I am EXCITE. Thank you for being so patient with me and supportive as I get this shit back up. Means a lot!
> 
> ALSO I didn't edit this chapter at all, so if you find any mistakes, etc, sorry! This chapter makes me nervous.
> 
> I have a WKFWDF [Spotify playlist here](https://open.spotify.com/user/inhalethepuredark/playlist/2g6aC9xYleLvOIZ4VhF1g7) if you're interested. Feel free to leave song suggestions.
> 
> Disclaimer: Not mine! Simply rewrote and adapted it. All rights belong to Johnnyboy7 on fanfiction.net. If you're confused about this, please check out my notes in Chapter One. I also don't own One Direction.

 

 

* * *

  _To whom much is given, much will be required. - Luke 12:48_

 

_It's like you're always stuck in second gear; when it hasn't been your day, your week, your month, or even your year_ —

It’s his mom. He doesn’t even have to open his eyes; just listening to the _Friends_ ’ theme song repeating itself once, twice, is enough. He has two hours— _two fucking hours_ —before his first alarm is set to go off and all he wants to do is pick up his battered cell phone, throw it out the window, and down to the concrete several floors below. He shouldn’t pick up, he wants _sleep_ —he’s tired and achy, but it’s his _mom_. His mom whom he just talked to a few nights ago, but that shouldn’t matter.

_I'll be there for yoooooou, when the rain starts to pour. I’ll be there for_ —

“Yes,” he groans into the mouthpiece after sliding a lazy finger over the screen. He should be sleeping. If his mom was _really_ there for him, she’d let him sleep. He’s, after all, a busy, overworked, sleep deprived, college student.

“Morning, Harry,” Anne Twist chirps. “I was just about to hang up. Did I wake you?”

“Hi, Mom.” Harry grabs his comforter and tugs it above his head, instantly feeling safe from the real world in his tiny, cozy, fleece cave. “No, no, ‘m just…resting. It’s, um, it’s still kinda early over here?”

“Oh, right, that pesky time difference. I’m sorry, dear,” his mom apologizes. “I just wanted to check in, see how the chilly winds of Chicago are treating you.”

He bites back a tired whine. “Mom, really, we talked about this a few days ago. You know I love you, but are you just calling to talk about the _weather_? You could _text_ me all your frosty concerns, you know.”

Anne makes a confronting noise. “Can’t a mother just call to check on her baby? H, you know it’s so—so _different_ without you here, in the house. We miss you, Robin and Dusty and I; it’s too quiet around here without you kids. My babies are gone, making their own lives. At least you answer your phone, unlike your sister, who—“

“Mom,” Harry mumbles. He feels guilt seeping into his pores for being short with her and not answering her call after the first ring.  He knows his mother is just suffering from Empty Nest Syndrome, but he should at least answer her phone calls and reply to her texts every once in a while. “I’m sorry,” he finally says. “I’ve just—I’ve been a bit… _busy_.”

_Busy_ dating a much older man, who, by the way, is the son of a mob boss—the people Anne Twist _despises_. _Busy_ underage-drinking at exclusive clubs, parading around in expensive clothes said mob boyfriend bought as gifts for Harry, driving around in luxurious cars, and dining for free at select restaurants. _Busy_ getting threatened by insane ex-girlfriends, followed by the police of Chicago, and kidnapped by sumo-wrestler-like bodyguards. Yeah, one could say Harry Styles has been a tad bit occupied.

“I know, I know.” Anne chuckles and Harry hears the distinctive sound of the coffee machine brewing. He can almost picture his mom—dressed up in her uniform; her thin, dark brown hair tied up in a ponytail and a cup of _coffee regula_ in her favorite chipped mug; a soft smile greeting him as he grabs a yogurt to go, late for first period like usual. “I miss you, ‘s all. I hope school is going good.”

“I miss you, too.” He feels like he’s suffocating underneath the thick comforter and yanks it off, pushing it to the side. He sits up, wincing when his bare skin touches the cool wall. “School’s good; everything’s going really great. I like my classes and my teachers are helpful, but you already know this.”

“Just making sure, honey. Robin and I—we’re so proud of you,” Anne admits. Her voice sounds scratchy, like it always does when she’s about to cry. “I was so worried about you, my baby boy, out there in Chicago all by himself. With Gems in New York and you in the Midwest, well, I thought I would lose you two to the big cities. But you’re alright; I know that now, dear.”

Harry swallows thickly. Would his mom be proud if she found out what he’s been doing behind her back, who he’s been associating with? “I’m perfectly okay, Mom, I promise.”

Anne sniffles and lets out choked laughter. “You better be on your best behavior, Harry Styles. I know you’re young and in a new, alluring city, but you best not be getting into any trouble!”

“No, I—no,” he splutters, cringing at his own words. _He_ doesn’t even believe the words coming out of his mouth, much less the woman who carried him in her womb. “No...”

“That sounds promising. Keep working on that for our next phone call,” Anne titters. “Listen,” she lowers her voice. “Try to get in touch with Gemma, please. I haven’t heard a peep out of her in two weeks. Now, I have some friends in the Big Apple watching over her, but you know how Robin is.”

Harry’s heart drops. “You have—you have people _watching_ —yes, sure, I’ll send her a text.” If Anne has cops in New York keeping tabs on his sister—his sister who is _older_ by a few years—could she have someone watching him, too? What if Anne already knows? What if she knows about Louis and his family and Harry’s involvement with them? What if—

“So, H. Any boys you’re thinking of bringing home for the holidays?”

“No,” he croaks out. “No boys, I haven’t—nope, no one at all, Mom.”

The second time his phone rings, he’s walking through the lobby of his building after lectures, and he feels a flurry of emotions pass through him. He takes the stairs instead of the elevator, and doesn’t let it go to voicemail like he had done in the morning, instead fishing his iPhone out of his back pocket and immediately answering. “Hi, you.”

“Baby,” Louis greets. “How are you?”

Harry stumbles going up a step, his foot missing the landing. He’s surprised at how—at how _normal_ Louis sounds. It’s a bit ridiculous, but a small part of him was expecting something else after that night. He was expecting the voice of a man who shoots people in the knees and punches them to a pulp, but that’s not what he’s hearing now. It’s only Louis.

It sounds wrong saying it’s _only_ Louis, because Louis is more than that, but it’s him, alright; his voice customary—scratchy and soft and always unnecessarily and unintentionally seductive. It’s the voice of the man Harry fell in love with, the voice who reads to him, the voice who cries out his name during thrones of pleasure. Harry was expecting something else, was expecting something to _change_ after Halloween night, but everything is the same; the sweet flurries in his stomach only multiply like bacteria.

A whole week has passed since Halloween, yet for some reason he’s still waiting for the fright (and flight) to kick in. He’s still expecting to see Louis and be _scared_ , but nothing has happened. Despite the fact that he’s in danger, there’s no panic settling in or second thoughts about being with Louis. It’s all clear.

“Harry? You there?”

“Yeah, yeah—I’m here, sorry.” He balances his textbooks on one arm as he reaches to unclip his key from his belt loop, throwing everything onto his unmade bed once he’s inside. He unzips his boots and kicks them underneath his desk, falling backwards on the bed. “I just got in. How’s the hangover?”

“Not so bad now,” Louis answers. “Although I can’t say the same for my brothers; Liam is a little disgruntled that Niall got completely hammered and apparently woke up looking like a ray of sunshine. Z claims it’s his Irish blood and Ni couldn’t be more proud of himself.”

Harry laughs, thumbing absentmindedly at his bedspread. “You had fun with your brothers last night, then? ‘M sorry I missed it, but you know how schoolwork picks up before Thanksgiving break.” He stands and shrugs out of his coat as much as he can with one busy hand before switching the phone to his other ear.

Louis hums in agreement. “There’s always next time. Anyway,” he starts. There’s a loud honk coming from wherever his boyfriend may be, probably driving manically on the roads of Chicago. “I was just calling to tell you I’m on my way.”

“ _Here_?” Harry squeaks unattractively, earning him a loud laugh from the other end, before rushing to his closet. He looks down at his tattered, purple plaid button-up and dirty, suspiciously-stained, black jeans. “But Lou—I-I’m not dressed yet. You said dinner at eight; it’s not even five yet.”

“D’you think you can get dressed fast? I’ll need you to sign me in—you know that blond cunt in reception—“

“I’ll meet you downstairs,” Harry promises, cutting Louis’ rant effectively. He presses his shoulder to his cheek in attempt to keep his phone steady, shifting through his sweaters.

“Okay, then, I’ll—I’ll see you downstairs… I—I love you.”

Harry bites his lip in attempt at stopping another embarrassing squeal. “I love you, too.” He hangs up with a giddy beam. Louis’ been saying the famous three words since Halloween night, much to his delight. He doesn’t know what changed that night—maybe it was the sight of Harry being taken away right under Louis’ nose, maybe it was seeing how easily he can come and go—but whatever it was, Harry’s not complaining. He knows that Louis means it, despite the hesitations.

He strips off his jeans as quick as possible, stumbling around the room when the fabric gets caught around his ankles. He throws the plaid shirt in his hamper and digs through his drawers for a simple, white scoop neck. He spies a pair of—relatively clean—black skinnies on his desk chair and tugs them on. Harry slips his feet into the warmest, sturdiest boots he owns in case of sudden snow, and shrugs his coat back on. He stands in front of his bathroom mirror as he runs his fingers through his recently-trimmed hair and puts on a thin layer of moisturizing, peach-tinted lip balm.

He’s rounding the corner towards the elevators, when the doors start to slide shut. “Hold the doors, please!” he shouts, and fortunately the doors start separating again. Or, perhaps, _unfortunately_ , Harry realizes once he steps inside and his redhead neighbor is grinning up at him.

“Harry!” she exclaims with a toothy smile. “I haven’t seen you in days! How was your Halloween? Was it good? I went to this party off-campus and met this guy—Josh—and we totally hooked up. Did you hook up with anyone?”

Harry blinks, trying to keep up with her slew of rapid questions. He taps his foot with impatience, glaring up at the glowing numbers above the doors. “Uh, hi.”

“So, anyway,” she continues, prattling off about her weekend. “—this one doesn’t have mommy issues, I’m almost positive of it. We’re going out tonight, actually, so, like, I guess you’re not the only one with men lining up at your door!”

“No, I guess not.” Harry gives her a tentative smile, before checking the time on his phone. He remembers hearing about someone getting stuck in the elevator for three hours last week after the power went out and prays to God that it never happens to him. At least not with his annoying neighbor—now, getting stuck with _Louis_ , on the other hand…

“What was on it? Was it porn?”

Harry snaps out of his thoughts, turning his attention back to the girl. “What are you talking about? On what?”

“The USB,” she repeats, staring up at him like he’s gone loony. “The memory stick I pushed underneath your door last week. It had on a pink sticky note—“

“That was _you_?” Harry questions with a skeptical attitude. He steps away from her, like the petite, five-foot-something girl in the skinny jeans is dangerous, but fuck, she could be, for all he knows. “You—why—,” he’s speechless, faltering. The oxygen in the small, enclosed space is vanishing. “Why did you do that?”

The girl just shrugs, shifting her purse higher up on her shoulder. “Easy money. Some guy paid me a hundred big ones just to that, can you believe it?”

“Oh, yeah, wow.” Harry licks his lips, trying to play it casual. He looks back up at the lit up numbers, and there’s only one floor left before they reach the lobby. “And, uh, what did he look like?”

“Hot as _fuck_ , like.” She makes a sign with her hand and nods. “Really tall, like about here, dark skin, dark hair, but with the nicest eyes.” She sighs wistfully and shrugs again. “I think I was supposed to tell you his name—Jace, I think—but I forgot, you know, I’ve been _so_ busy with Josh.”

“Jace,” Harry mutters. “Jacen Wilds?”

Redhead snaps her fingers. “That’s it! So, like, was it porn?”

The doors pull apart after what feels like a century, and Harry mumbles a soft goodbye, rushing past her.  The wind hits his face with a shudder-educing _smack_ once he’s outside, and he wishes he had bothered to put on a coat with a hoodie, or at least a beanie, as he sits down on the bench, the stone cold and unforgiving. It starts to snow after a few minutes and Harry stands to wait inside the lobby, when a familiar, sleek Range Rover pulls up to the curve.

Louis hops out soon enough, dressed down in a simple pair of loose Adidas sweats and bright orange pullover. There are silky strands peaking out from underneath a dark beanie. “It’s cold as fuck,” he shouts, shivering. “Why are you out here?”

“I was just about to go in,” Harry admits. In all honestly, he could stand out in the cold, watching little snowflake flutters fall onto Louis’ long lashes for hours, or until his bones freeze. He wants to nuzzle his nose against his boyfriend’s ruddy cheeks and feel the warmth. He wants to open up his coat and let Louis cuddle him, wrapping the fabric around them both. Winter-Louis is magical, Harry thinks.

“Well, c’mon,” Louis orders. He wraps an arm around Harry’s waist and leads them inside, holding the door open and letting it fall shut behind them. Louis shivers and rubs his hands together as Harry digs into the man’s back pocket and pulls out his wallet, handing his ID to the blond boy behind the desk.

“It’s not so bad. Winter in Boston is _much_ worse,” Harry says.

Louis shudders. “I forgot how much I hated Boston when I went to school there.” He wraps both arms around Harry’s waist and presses soft, warm lips to his cheek. “Maybe I’ll go visit someday.”

“Yeah,” Harry hums, taking back the ID. “Maybe.” When they’re waiting for the elevator in comfortable silence, he remembers. “Before I forget, I have something to tell you. You remember my neighbor, right? The redhead?”

Louis nods. “Yeah, ‘course, Ginger the Snoop.”

“I got stuck in the elevator with her on my way down here,” Harry says, smiling at Louis’ sympathetic look. “She kinda—well, she said something important; _she_ was the one who slipped the USB into my room.”

“Ginger the Snoop?” Louis clarifies with a puzzled expression. “I don’t understand why—has she threatened you? Has she said something about me?”

“No, no, nothing like that.” The elevator opens and they step inside. “It’s Jacen Wilds,” Harry informs him, pressing the button to the top floor. Besides him, Louis’ jaw tightens, his fists clenching. “He paid her to put it in my room, and she was supposed to tell me it was from him, but she just forgot. I highly doubt she knows anything, but he—he’s after me, Lou, like you said.”

The elder of the two licks his lips, nodding simply. “Alright, good. Now we have proof that the PD is behind this. Don’t worry,” Louis adds, slinging an arm around Harry and bringing him closer. “I’ll take care of it.”

Harry takes his bottom lip between his teeth. He wants to ask, wants to know just what _taking care of it_ entitles, but a bigger part of him wants to be kept in the dark. He doesn’t know if Louis would be stupid enough to try something against a police officer, of all people. Of course he hates the thought of anyone knowing where he lives, hates how easily they have access to him, but over all, he knows Louis will keep him safe. He trusts him.

The rest of the slow ride up to his room is quiet, but not tense. The moment they’re in the dorm room, Louis turns and presses him up against the door, sealing his lips onto his rosy skin. Harry’s surprised gasp quickly turns into a low moan as Louis bites at his skin, at the crook of his neck, sinking his teeth down and licking over the tender spot with a quick tongue.

Harry yelps as Louis hooks his arms underneath his thighs, lifting him further up the door, and he wraps his legs around Louis’ waist. He frowns as his calf hits something bulky, hidden in the man’s waistband. He doesn’t get a chance to ask about it, as Louis pulls back and releases an attack on Harry’s mouth, working his bottom lip between sharp teeth. He doesn’t even notice they’re moving, feet locked together at Louis’ back, until he’s being dumped on the bed, his man hovering over him with a pleased smirk.

“Have I told you lately how beautiful you are?” Louis asks suddenly, caressing his cheek with two knuckles. It’s a sudden change from the biting and licking and overall (glorious) caveman action. “God, fucking look at you, _bello_.” His eyes run over every little detail on Harry’s face, and the younger male squirms under Louis’ heavy gaze, flushing instantly.

“Thank you, Daddy,” he breathes out in content. There’re nimble fingers tracing over his cupid’s bow and he nudges his face up until two of them slip into the wet heat of his mouth, tracing over the sweet skin with his tongue. Harry doesn’t break eye contact from Louis, not once—not when he’s twirling his tongue around an index, not when he’s biting down on the bone, not when Louis’ fingers are touching the back of his throat, not when Harry’s own hand is reaching around the man to grip at the bulky item at Louis’ side.

Louis doesn’t react, only looks pleased, and starts moving his digits in and out of Harry’s mouth rapidly, fucking his mouth with his dainty, calloused fingers, petting at the back of his throat. “What are you doing, you naughty boy? Feel something you like?”

Harry only hums, nodding. His eyes fall shut when Louis lets some of his weight fall on him, pressing their groins together, rutting against him. He doesn’t let go of the item in Louis’ jeans, wants to take it out, exam it, feel the weight in his hands, but he doesn’t know if that’s pushing some sort of limit they’ve never discussed. Instead, he whines when Louis’ fingers are removed from his mouth, his throat empty, his tongue bare.

Louis sits up and shrugs out of his jacket and Harry follows suit, pulling off his coat and messily tossing it over his shoulder and out of his way. “Are you gonna be good for me, _gattino_? Gonna do everything I say?”

“Yes, yes, Daddy,” Harry blubbers, his red lips wet with spit. “I-I’ll do anything you want me to do, promise.” His cock is aching against the tight fabric of his jeans, begging to be freed. He doesn’t know what’s different this time around with Louis, but he has a feeling it’s the gun. Never in his life has he seen a gun and felt arousal, but then again, never in his life did he think he’d be dating an incredibly sexy, older man who knows how to use one. “Can I—can I—?”

“Can you what, Princess?” Louis sits with his legs straddled around Harry’s thighs, yanking his t-shirt off, leaving his golden, toned torso bare. The man starts pushing Harry’s shirt up his stomach, little by little, until it’s pooled around his neck and Louis has his lips around a sensitive, pink nipple. He laps at the bud until it’s puffy and red and Harry’s whimpering underneath him. “What do you need?”

“I want to—I want to see it.” Harry’s hand hasn’t left its spot, pressing down on the weapon slightly, and his other hand is entangled in Louis’ hair, pressing him down to his chest. It’s not like he’s never seen Louis with a gun before—Harry _did_ get eaten out in his boyfriend’s gun storage, and he _did_ get down on his knees for the man while surrounded by hundreds of weapons—but it’s different somehow. They’re here, in his dorm, not the penthouse, and Louis’ lips are like hot, licking and biting his sore nipples. “Please, Daddy, I need—“

“Stand up,” Louis orders, pressing one last kiss to Harry’s irritated teats. “Strip.”

The boy is quick to follow the orders; jumping off the bed as best as he can with a painful hard-on stuck to his thigh. He yanks off his t-shirt with haste and tugs off his jeans and underwear, hopping on one foot then another to work the tight fabric off. He waits quietly for another command once he’s stark naked, clothes thrown around the room without care, chest heaving with excitement and just the slightest touch of fear to get him going.

“On your knees.” Louis moves from the bed to stand in front of Harry, as he kneels wordlessly. The Mafia member removes the gun from its holster and licks his lips, grabbing a fistful of Harry’s curls, tugging until the boy’s neck is exposed, long and white, littered with mauve bite marks. “Why do you want to see my gun so badly, huh, princess? You want to touch it, too?”

Harry pules when he feels cool steel press against the round of his cheeks. He can’t do anything but watch through heavy, glazed eyes at Louis before him, reel in the pressure of the muzzle against his skin. It’s harrowing; the need to drop a hand in between his thighs to relieve some of the tension, just sneak in a few tugs, but he knows Louis is watching and Daddy would never let it slide. “Can I,” he starts to say. “Can I, Daddy—please?”

“What do you need?” Louis doesn’t stop gliding the gun across Harry’s pinked skin, stilling the gun against his temple, pressing down. “Hm, baby?”

Harry swallows heavily. He has beads of perspiration forming above his upper lip, on top of his brow; his heart is beating soundly in his chest, like the stomps of wild elephants. He doesn’t know what he wants, doesn’t know what words to put in his mouth. Louis’ looking at him expectantly, the glock traveling down to put weight against the corner of Harry’s mouth. “Is it, um,” he jabbers, the weapon moving as his lips do. “Is it loaded—the gun, is it loaded?”

Louis snorts and pulls the gun away. “Rather anticlimactic to carry an empty gun around, don’t you think?”

“Y-yeah.” A shiver passes through him, the feeling of little caterpillars crawling up his spine. There’s a loaded pistol in Louis’ hand and all he can think about is putting his lips on it, letting the barrel hit the back of his throat, coating it with spit. It’s just—it’s irrational. Louis’ gazing at him through narrowed eyes, eyebrow quirked like he knows exactly what’s going on in his head, and fuck. He trusts Louis that much, trusts him enough to press a gun to his temple. He doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything at all: he licks his lips and slowly opens them up, tongue pressed down, waiting.

“Oh, I see.” Louis’ ownlips turn upwards and he squats down until they’re eye-level. “You want to play, do you, _gattino_? Want to play with Daddy’s big boy toys?” He runs his thumb over Harry’s slick bottom lip, eyes searching for something on Harry’s face—maybe reassurance, some sort of guarantee, maybe panic, maybe not. “Want to play a game?”

“I want—I want anything,” Harry declares. He feels a familiar prick in his eyes that he doesn’t understand. It’s overwhelming, knowing what’s going to happen, knowing what they’re gonna do. He’s never wanted something as much as he wants Louis to fuck his throat with that gun, right now. “I want it s-so bad, Daddy, please. I’ll be good.”

Louis nods and stands, pulling his touch away. A different look passes over the elder’s sculpted face, lips pressing together. It’s not longer concern and lust, but boldness and contentment. “You’re going to do what I say. You won’t speak unless I ask you to, understood?”

Harry watches his boyfriend drop the pistol carefully on the bed, the black body of it a stark contrast against his soft yellow sheets. He can’t look away when Louis starts to peel his jeans off, leaving his boxers on. He’s confused when the man turns his back to him, and there’s silence until a quiet, almost unnoticeable, clicking noise breaks it.

Louis turns back with the glock pistol in his right hand, a small smile playing at his lips. “You trust me?”

Harry can only nod dumbly, watching silently with glassy eyes. He wants to ask if Louis unloaded it, if the magazine is empty, if what they’re doing is completely, one hundred percent safe. He wants to ask for another kiss, for an _I love you_ , but he can’t speak. His palms are sticky and his knees are starting to ache, the carpet prickly. The dick between his legs is fully hard, standing at attention, and it fucking _hurts_. He’s never been more turned on in his life.

Louis squats down in front of Harry again and leaves an innocent kiss on his lips. Harry winces at the bitter taste once the barrel is in between his lips, slipping smoothly, the front sight nudging the roof of his mouth.  He feels his body start to quiver at the rush, but glides his tongue underneath the glock, feeling the even edges.

“You know what to do now, baby,” Louis says, watching. His blue eyes can’t seem to stop flickering from Harry’s lips to his eyes. “Pretend that’s my dick in your mouth. Make me come.”

Harry forces himself to maintain eye contact, blinking back the wetness from his eyes. He starts to bob back and forth, the muzzle sliding easily in his mouth, taking it slowly, inch by inch. There’s spit running down his chin, trickling along his neck. He flicks the barrel with the tip of his tongue, gaze heavy as Louis starts to palm himself through his boxers.

“You’re so hard, aren’t you, baby? Look at you, so flushed and excited. That’s got to hurt.” Louis pouts at him in mock sympathy, glancing at Harry’s throbbing dick. “D’you think you can come, baby? Get your self off?”

Harry’s eyes fall shut as he nods the best he can, happily reaching down to grab himself. He hums around the pistol, gliding beads of precum around the base of his dick, tugging himself in earnest. His fingers move further down to play with his balls, the weight of them heavy in his hands—he’s so close already.

“Wow,” Louis sighs wistfully. “Look at you. Fuck—you’re so beautiful, so fucking stunning. You must hurt, don’t you baby? Why don’t you come for me, _gattino?_ Come for me, _now._ ”

Trembling, Harry comes into his hand, ropes of white splashing onto his belly. It’s hard to breath around the gun, but he does it anyway, panting heavily, his chest rising up and down like furious waves. It’s hard not to be embarrassed about coming so quick, but he can’t find it in himself to care in the slightest. He rides out the orgasms, pulling slowly at his sensitive dick, while still sucking on the muzzle of the gun, his cheeks hallowing out for the stainless steel. He blinks open his eyes when Louis groans from across him, the older man leaning down to slide a finger through the mess on Harry’s stomach, popping the same digit into his mouth, moaning.

“That was so good, so—fuck.” Louis continues cupping himself, rubbing the heel of his palm against his confined hardness. “Why don’t you keep going, huh, baby?” At the widening of Harry’s eyes, he sniggers. “Don’t stop until I say to, got it?”

Harry’s hand shakes as it goes back to his softening hard-on. He grimaces as he starts pulling on himself, mouth still wrapped around the pistol. Louis’ looking at him with nothing but hunger in his eyes, tongue running over his top lip.

“C’mon, Princess, I know you can come again. You’ve done it before. Make Daddy proud.”

His hand starts moving faster at the command. He lives to see that satisfied smile graze Louis’ face, whether is be from a good test score, or for coming on demand. He’s putting so much effort in working his hand that his mouth goes slower on the gun, almost nonexistent. He’s surprised when the pistol is pushed further into his mouth, barrel hitting the back of his throat all the sudden. He gags momentarily, forcing his reflexes to relax.

“What are you doing, Harry?” Louis questions with a displeased tone in his voice. He’s looking down at him with a disapproving curve of his eyebrows, shaking his head slowly. “Why’re you crying, huh? You’re not scared, are you?”

_No, no, no_. He’s not scared. He trusts Louis with his life, knows that Louis would never lead him astray. With that being said, there _is_ a fucking gun is his mouth. It’s touching the back of his throat with every thrust and that by itself has Harry’s nerves on edge. He’s sweating, his hair damp at the back of his neck, a light sheen of sweat pooling with the drying come on his stomach, and he’s getting hard again, his dick lifting with interest.

Louis continues thrusting the pistol into Harry’s swollen mouth, palming himself. Just the sight of his man touching himself makes Harry’s body vibrate with excitement and need. He wants to reach out and put his lips on Louis, maybe take both the gun and Louis’ cock in his mouth, stretching him out. Tears are stuck in his lashes and falling down his heated face—he must be a sight, too.

“Baby,” Louis starts again. “You trust me, don’t you?” _Of course;_ what a pointless question. He’d stupidly do anything for Louis Tomlinson, and the said man knows that. Louis thrusts the gun in with more force, never looking away from his face. Harry flinches, squeezing his eyes shut, when Louis moves his hand, cocking the weapon; the noise loud in the otherwise quiet room.

His heart goes in over-drive, speeding clumsily, leaving bruises against his ribcage. The carpet beneath him is slippery from how wet with sweat his kneecaps are, his whole body shedding water through his pores. He goes cross-eyed, watching as Louis settles his index on the trigger. What the _fuck_?

“You’re close, aren’t you, _gattino_? Gonna come soon for me?”

Harry groans, blinking wetly. His hand is starting to ache from how fast he’s going, the grip he’s using, and he wants to come, needs to come. The fear that’s creeping up on him now is giving him the nudge towards his release.

“I’m giving you five seconds, Harry,” Louis asserts. “You’ve got five seconds to come, or I’ll pull the trigger.”

Harry panics.

“Five. Four…”

His cries are just mumbles against the muzzle moving in his mouth, his eyesight blurry from the tears. He moves his hand furiously, wills his orgasm, his release, _whatever_ , to hurry up. There is no doubt he’s oddly turned on by the situation he’s found himself in—a cocked gun in his mouth, Louis’ finger on the trigger, Louis’ touching himself—pulling on his dick with both of his hands.

“Three. Two—”

His eyes are clamped shut, squeezed together so tightly that it almost hurts, the pain hardly registering with Harry’s brain. His toes curl violently when he comes, one hand finding purchase in the carpet, gripping tightly at nothing. He can hardly breathe, choking on the glock pressed up tightly in the deep of his throat and the tears that escape into his mouth, his whole body burning blaze and dry. His cock scarcely leaks, spluttering a tiny bit of nothingness. When he blinks open his eyes and his lashes clump apart, Louis is still staring at him, finger still on the trigger, his—

“One.”

Harry freezes but nothing happens. There’s a slight sound coming from the gun, the swift movement of air, but nothing more. Louis’ watching him with a curious—possibly impressed—glint in his eyes, and he doesn’t take his eyes off him as he removes the gun from Harry’s tender mouth.

“For fuck’s sake, baby. I can’t believe you did that.” Louis _is_ impressed, grinning wildly now. The gun is tossed on the floor by the desk, away from them both, and Harry slumps over, his bones tired and weighing him down. Louis cups a hand around his damp, burned jaw, the younger boy instantly leaning into the touch. “So beautiful, so brave,” Louis keens.

Harry opens his mouth, but like before, he can’t speak. He only nods; the room hazy and unclear. His body is buzzing from the aftershocks, flushed and pleasant. “Thank you,” he whispers roughly, his voice shot.

“Now, now,” Louis tsks disdainfully. “Did I say you could speak?” Harry only gasps when Louis puts his arms around him and lifts him over his shoulder, before dumping him lightly on the bed. The boy props himself up on his elbows to ogle at the elder stripping his boxers off, fat dick slapping against hard stomach, before crawling back on top of Harry. “You’ve been such a good boy for me, but I’ve still got a bit of a problem, don’t I, Princess?”

Harry silently agrees. His attention is set on Louis’ round, plump ass when he leans over to grab a bottle of lube from the nightstand drawer. Louis slicks his fingers up to the last knuckle before gripping Harry’s waist and flipping him over on his stomach, ass perked up in the air.

“Color, baby?”

“G-green.” His face is squished against the pillow, blocking his air passages just the slightest bit, causing adrenaline to pump by the truckload into his veins. He pants against the cool fabric when Louis runs rough hands across Harry’s cheeks, leaving a trail of lubricant. He yelps when a hand smacks his skin heavily, leaving a red, burning impression.

“That was for disobeying me and talking,” Louis explains. He brushes his fingers across Harry’s red, pulsating flesh before spreading apart his cheeks. “I don’t want to hear a single sound from you, Harry. One peep out of you and we can start playing again. One in six, baby.”

Harry swallows, a soft whimper escaping his disobedient lips. Louis’ tongue, that was leaving licks of white electricity on Harry’s pink rim, stills before pulling off. The seconds it takes for Louis to hop off the bed, dick swinging between his firm legs, to retrieve the gun from the floor, is filled with unvoiced tensity, tingles in Harry’s spine, and a soupcon of alarm. He turns around when Louis orders him to, slowly, unsure, and then there’s a gun pointed at him again.

“Oh, Princess,” Louis murmurs. “What am I going to do with you? I tell you not to make a sound and then look at what you do.” The gun, like earlier, trails down to his swollen, raspberry lips, nudging its way into the dip of his mouth. Louis pulls on Harry’s legs with a hand, until they’re over the man’s shoulder. “Now,” Louis says in thought. “You broke the rules—two in six; where should I do it next?”

The hairs on Harry’s arms are standing straight up, the muzzle of the gun moving slowly over his body; dipping into the hallow of his collarbones, pressing against his nipples, running down the curves of his ribs, circling his bellybutton. It’s when it travels further south that he has to bite his bottom lip white, do everything possible to hold back his anxious wheeze. He winces when the cool steel of the muzzle presses up against his warm rim, Louis nudging it with the tip of the gun.

Louis laughs and removes the glock. “Just kidding, baby, don’t worry.” Instead, he leans down slightly, pressing the gun to Harry’s chest, over his heart. “Remember, _gattino_ , not a sound.”

Harry swears the barrel of the gun burns through his skin until it’s directly against his beating heart. Louis presses the trigger again, and like before, Harry can’t help but wonder if the thing is actually loaded, or if he’s just been lucky. Two out of six and his dick twitches, enthralled by the unknown, the danger that lurks behind the barrel.

Louis drops the gun on the bed, inches besides Harry’s ribs. He lubes up his dick and drops Harry’s legs, shuffling until he’s sitting on the boy’s chest, nudging the head of his cock against Harry’s lips. He’s salty, leaking, throbbing red, and Harry wants him, wants him, _wants him_.

“Not a sound,” Louis reminds him, pushing his cock inside Harry’s mouth.

Louis’ thicker than the gun, longer; he fills up every inch inside his mouth, feels heavy on his tongue in the nicest, most indescribable way. Come tomorrow morning, he might lose his voice, might be sore, but it’s worth it, everything’s worth it. From pleasing Louis to the thrill that course through his blood every time the glock was close to his skin.

Louis’ breath hitches when Harry tongues at his slit, lapping up every pearl of white. “I want to come, Princess. Can you make daddy come, hm?” He starts thrusting into his mouth and Harry lets him, relaxing his muscles, letting Louis use him as he wishes. It doesn’t take long for Louis to come in his mouth, filling him with his natural bittersweet taste.

“God,” the man groans, rolling over onto his back. “That was—how does—I’m just so… _fuck_. I just can’t get enough of you,” he admits with an unusually soft voice, the voice that’s just for Harry.  “Are you okay?”

The younger of the two beams brightly, scooting closer to Louis, snuggling under a heavy arm.  “I’m perfect,” he croaks out. His throat is raw and begging for some fluids, but he won’t complain, happily muddled. “ _That_ was perfect. I never knew I wanted that,” he giggles. “’S a bit weird, isn’t it?”

“No,” Louis argues. “It’s not weird, especially not if you enjoyed it. I liked seeing you like that, pushing you to your limits. It’s beautiful, _you’re_ beautiful, and you’re all mine, _sei mio_.”

Harry grins, his eyes fluttering shut. He’s warm and cozy besides Louis, trying to ignore the itchy feeling starting up on his belly. “I’m all yours, Louis Tomlinson. I’ve got no control over this anymore, you know? My body, my mind, my fucking soul—they just know, somehow. They trust you. I’m powerless.”

Louis watches him for a few moments, his cerulean eyes striking and clear, before he’s grinning. “You’re such a fucking sap, Styles.” He leaves a wet kiss on Harry’s damp forehead. “Such a fucking sap, fucking crazy. You let me fuck your mouth with a loaded gun; I know exactly how powerless you just are. You fucking love it.”

“I don’t care, it’s obvio— _what_?!” He shrieks, scratching his throat. He sits up and turns his shocked eyes at Louis. “I thought the gun wasn’t loaded! Lou _is_!”

“What?” Louis rolls his eyes and sits up, too, leaning against the wall. “An unloaded gun is _very_ anticlimactic.”

“You ass!” He punches Louis’ bare thigh weakly, pouting dramatically, his lips swollen, shiny and red like a few coats of lip gloss. “I could’ve _died_. Or—or worse!”

“What’s worst than dying?”

“That’s not the point, Tomlinson.”

Louis sighs and wraps an arm around his waist, pulling Harry towards him. “Now,” he starts, licking a bead of sweat on Harry’s shoulder. “Do you honestly think I would’ve let something happen to you? You think I would’ve been stupid enough to _shoot_ you, _bello_?”

“Well, no,” Harry mumbles. “But there were _bullets_ in there. You could’ve accidentally—“

“No, no accidentally _anything_ , baby.” Louis reaches across from him, snatching a hair elastic from the nightstand. He grabs a handful of curls, pulling the long locks into a ponytail, before wrapping it around into a topknot—a term he only learned recently because of Harry. He ties it sloppily, a few strands falling out to frame Harry’s face. “I think ‘m getting better at that. Anyway, I know how guns work, _gattino_ , and there is only one bullet in there—I took the others out.”

“But how did—how did you know? Why did you only leave one,” Harry questions.

“’Cause you’re a good boy,” Louis replies smoothly, nothing but honesty in his smile. “I added just the one for a little, I don’t know,” he shrugs, “fun.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Love you, though, you know? I’d never let anyone hurt you.”

“I know.”

 

“And—and to drink, Mr. Tomlinson, Mr. Styles?”

“Um.” Harry looks back at his elegant menu, the Italian written in a fancy font—there aren’t even any prices on the thing. The whole restaurant is over-done, with crystal chandeliers, imported Oriental rugs, waiters in pressed tuxedos, and a breathtaking view of Michigan Lake. He feels under dressed in a Packers hoodie and jeans, but Louis is dressed in jeans, too, with a black, denim button up thrown over a visible, white shirt, bossing people around like he owns the place. Which, uh, he might. Harry should ask.

Louis shuts his menu, handing it back to the jumpy waiter. “While my boyfriend is still choosing, I’d like a glass of your best dry rosé.”

“Yeah, same,” Harry finally agrees, slapping his menu shut. He looks up to see Louis making a face. “What?”

“Don’t you think you’d be better off with something a bit more soothing? Like, I don’t know, water? For your throat,” Louis adds, licking his lips. He turns to the waiter with a roguish glint in his eyes. “My boy hurt his throat earlier today; had a bit of trouble swallowing his dessert…Do you have anything to help the ache?”

The waiter sputters, looking back and forth between Louis’ calm expression and Harry’s flushing face. “I think we—I think we have lemon tea, sir, if you’re interested? I, um, I read on Armstrong.com—you know—sir—the website by Lance Armstrong?—that it’s good to drink cold fluids when one has a sore throat. We have iced lemon tea. Sir.”

“Ah, perfect.” Louis smiles and sits back. “One cold, lemon tea for Harry and rosé for me.” The second the waiter—who can’t be much older than Harry himself—leaves with their orders, Harry kicks his foot out, effectively hitting Louis in the shin. “Ouch! Harry, what the fuck,” the man hisses.

“ _Had trouble swallowing_?!” Harry crinkles his nose, glaring at Louis from across the table, his cheeks gone ruddy. “I did _not_ have trouble swallowing anything. Wine sounded good.”

“You’ll be fine,” Louis replies. He reaches out to grab his hand on the table. “Besides, what kind of irresponsible partner would I be if I let you drink underage?”

“You’re so full of shit,” Harry laughs. “You let me do it all the time, besides, what are you gonna do if I sneak a sip of your wine? Call my mom and have her arrest me?”

His boyfriend scratches his chin and blinks his light eyes towards the ceiling. “No, no, I can’t do that, can I? You still have a long way to go before you can legally drink here. Don’t worry, we can go down to Mexico for vacation; I want to see what you’ll do drunk on tequila.”

Harry hooks their ankles together playfully, squeezing Louis’ hand. “You just saw what I would do _sober_ , I don’t want to know what I’d do drunk, Lou,” he says, cringing.

“I want to know.” Louis winks and looks around the dining room. “Besides, at least you still have your youth, Harry. I’m almost thirty! _Thirty_.”

“You’re only twenty-four,” Harry responds, scoffing. “Plus, I think you’ll be a hot, old guy. You’d look sexy with a head full of silver and a cane made of gold.”

Now it’s time for Louis to grimace. “Don’t speak of such things, _gattino_. _Dio mi salvi_!”

After some pouting and a lot of innocent blinking of round, green eyes, Louis agrees to pour Harry a glass of rosé, ordering a bottle instead, and pushing the lemon tea aside. Their food comes soon after and they dig in hungrily, stomachs growling once a waft of their meals reaches them.

“We should talk,” Louis commences after a bite of his chicken. “We haven’t really had a chance to talk about Halloween night.”

“Yes we have.” Harry’s brows furrow as he cuts a piece of his grilled chicken. “Just yesterday, we did nothing but watch Gossip Girl on Netflix. You could’ve started any moment Vanessa came on, you know I dislike her.”

Louis waves his hands around in frenzy, hushing him. “Could you say that any louder?”

“Yes, I could! What’s wrong with enjoying the drama of a bunch of Upper East Side brats? And I _know_ you love it when Nate Archibald comes on.”

“Sometimes he turns at just the right angle and he looks like Zac Efron, and—that’s _not_ the point,” Louis grumbles. “Stop distracting me.”

Harry holds up his hands in innocence. “I have done no such thing. Go on.”

“Lies. Biggest distraction known to mankind, with those lips and those legs,” Louis breathes out lowly, causing Harry to grin widely. “This is serious, Harry, okay? It’s about you.”

“Alright,” Harry sighs, expecting the worst. “What is it?”

“What Johannah told you last week, it’s all true, but she left out some important parts,” Louis states, picking at his roast veal. His voice has taken a serious tone despite the joking matter moments ago, his face showing hesitation and, if Harry’s correct, a twinge of regret. “I don’t know if you’ve seen the Godfather or The Sopranos, or whatever, but normally in a typical Mafia family, there is a line of succession ensuring the crown, you know, a boss.”

“Yeah, ‘course,” Harry agrees. “I think everyone knows that. It’s always the first born.”

“ _S_ _ì_ _, ma la mia famiglia_ —my family isn’t a typical Mafia family.”

Harry swallows thickly, questioning, “What does that mean? Is Liam not the next head of the family?”

“No,” Louis answers lowly, looking up at him through his lush, brown lashes. “Liam’s not next, I am.”

Harry grabs his glass and gulps back the rest of his wine just to have something to do. Louis rolls his eyes but picks up the bottle from the bucket of ice and refills it wordlessly. “Okay,” Harry breathes out. “Why are you next? Why isn’t it Liam or Zayn? Why do _you_ take the crown after Johannah?”

“There’s no law that states Ma has to pick Liam or anything, that’s just how it usually goes. You see, Liam has a few—a few _character flaws_ that would burn our business to the ground,” Louis explains. “And Zayn, actually, isn’t even supposed to be able to run anything—we had to work hard to get Z some of the same privileges as us after he was adopted, but he doesn’t have any Tomlinson blood in him. I’m the only choice this family has left; I’ll be making the rules someday.”

Harry takes it all in, nodding. “When exactly is that _some_ day?”

“Whenever Johannah chooses.” Louis shrugs and goes back to his meal. “It could be in a decade, or two, or three, or four—it could be next fucking Sunday.”

“Fuck me.” Harry lets out a gust of troubled air from his cheeks, frowning instantly, stomach in a tizzy despite the few, delicious bites he’s had. “That’s a lot of shit to put on you, Lou. How do you—I wouldn’t be able to go through with that.”

Louis shrugs again with carelessness, like he’s discussing basketball or tits or _Ford_ cars. “ _Chi ha più giudizio più n'adoperi_. Luke 12:48, baby: To whom much is given, much will be required. I’m _Il Principe_ , Harry, and I’m going to have a hell of a job.”

“Yeah.” Harry glances back at his chicken, going cold on the fancy, shcmancy china. He didn’t think it could get any more serious than dating someone involved in the mafia, but he’s actually dating a real life heir. Great.

“We’ve always had enemies,” Louis continues, pausing to take a sip of his wine. “That’ll never stop—of course, not while we’re as strong as we are—however, now they know who’s next in line, and that means there will be more targets on me.”

“Targets?”

“I don’t know how to…Let me say this: People are idiots, Harry, and they’ll stop at nothing to burn the Tomlinson empire to the ground,” Louis alleges with a solemn hint in his raspy voice. “Maybe they could’ve taken care of Johannah years ago, but she doesn’t matter anymore; the future is what’s important, and I have it in my hands as _Il Principe._ ”

“How can you say that?” Harry stresses, grabbing Louis’ hand with a tight grip. “ _Taken care of Johannah_? I can’t—I don’t. What about Halloween, Lou? What does this have to do with that night?”

“Like I said, we have a lot of foes. Chloe, the Greeks—they all belong to the Lucas organization, their ruler is her father; Alexei Lucas. He’s not a good man, not by any means, but you could say he’s a lot like Johannah.” Louis chuckles at something and continues with no explanation. “You’ve met Oliver Scott, too—that fucking English bastard—who controls all of the Scott family. Then there’s—“

“Louis,” Harry interrupts. “Where are you going with this?”

“Trying to make a point to you—we have a lot of fucking enemies.”

“Yeah, Lou, I got that the night I was _kidnapped_ in a ridiculous, one-piece, leather police costume.”

“Alright, okay,” Louis laughs, but Harry quite honestly doesn’t find anything funny. “Back to the Lucases; I paid a visit to Alexei, who hadn’t even heard of you, and assured me he had nothing to do with what happened on Halloween.”

“So it was that girl?” Harry asks, eyes narrowing into a glower.

Louis nods softly, a strand falling from his fringe and into his eyes. Harry reaches over and pushes it aside with a coy touch. “Chloe knows that I know, and it’s not looking for good for her.”

“Louis!” Harry gasps. “Are you going to hurt her? I know what she did was wrong, _disgusting_ , but you can’t hurt her because—“

“Calm down, Princess,” Louis behests quietly. “To be honest, I don’t ever want to see her again, but her form of punishment is whatever Alexei wishes.”

“Right,” Harry affirms, bowing his head. “Lou, I just can’t get over the fact that she had the man do that to me ‘cause she was jealous of me— _jealous_. What where they going to do to me, where were they going to take me? Who _does_ that?”

Louis presses his lips together in a thin line, the food they had been awaiting hungrily for gone cold between them. The older man hesitates. “Baby, the thing is that a lot of people do that. It happens a lot in my— _this_ world, and sometimes the outcomes aren’t as good as yours. Not everyone is interested in you like Chloe was—what she did was out of jealously and vanity, but others…They won’t care about that.”

“Lou—Louis,” Harry quavers, mouth agape. He knows the panic and terror is showing on his face, reflecting on the surface like a big, spotless mirror. “What the fuck are you saying? What are you saying to me right now?”

Louis’ face mirrors his. There’s fright in his eyes for the first time since Harry’s met him, worry oozing from every pore in his body. He’s rigid in his seat, his knuckles gone white from where his fingers are wrapped around the stem of the wine glass. “ _Gattino_ , you know that the most important thing to me is your safety. I _need_ to know you’re safe. They know who you are— _everyone_ knows who you fucking are,” Louis exclaims, voice rising with every horrifying word. “I’ve never—I’ve never had to worry about someone other than myself and my family, I’ve never had an attachment like this before, not with anyone; you’re special and it shows.”

“I don’t—,” Harry cuts himself off. He tilts his head to the side in consideration and leans forward. He doesn’t understand. His simple mind can’t wrap around Louis’ words. “What are you saying to me? Stop— _please_ stop speaking in riddles and just fucking say it.”

“You’re fucking important, Harry,” Louis blurts. “Maybe, I don’t know, maybe someday you might be a _different_ kind of important—like Ma.”

“Ma,” Harry repeats with frenzied eyes. “Your _mother_?”

“Yes, yes, just—just listen, okay?” Louis begs, frustration written on his face. “Before she was who she is today, she was just the wife to Felice, and then Marcos. Being a wife, or husband, in Dan’s case, is very serious,” he explains. “Before she was the boss, she was the wife, and she was respected in every sense of the word—but that doesn’t mean they didn’t wish death upon her. Not only does she have old Scottish mafia blood running in her veins, but she made my father the powerful man he was.”

“Okay,” Harry draws, every word spoken from Louis’ lips burning themselves into his brain.

“Without Johannah, Felice and Marcos wouldn’t have made the business what it is today—it probably wouldn’t have gotten to this standard. They wouldn’t have been as effective without her, just like… just like I won’t be as compelling without you.”

“Me?” Harry squeaks. “I mean, _me_ ,” he adds in a lower tenor.

“Yes, you,” Louis snickers, breaking the overwrought ambiance if merely for a few long seconds. “Everyone knows how much you mean to me now, the lengths I will go to in order to protect you. They could use you so simply to get to me, to bargain with me, to try and control me. I’m—I’m _so_ sorry, Harry, baby, so fucking sorry, but—but everything has changed now, and your life will never be the same ever again just because I love you. You’re in danger and it’s my fault, and I’m fucking— _fucking sorry_.”

Harry watches in agony as Louis shields his face with his hands, his body shaking in a way he’s never seen it before. He’s trembling in a form Harry can only describe as dread, and it awakens Harry’s core with alarm, too, at the sight of seeing his strong, almost indestructible, man fracture. He’s in trouble, danger, like Louis already said, but his thoughts are only about getting up from his seat, waking around the table, and plopping down on his man’s lap.

“’m in danger, then,” he repeats instead. “They want to get to me in order to hurt you—to hurt your family and the business, too?”

Louis nods with his head still in his hands. “Yeah,” he mumbles.

“Will you look at me, please?”

“Sorry,” Louis apologizes, removing his shield. His eyes are rimmed with red and heavy with fault. “You don’t have to worry about anything,” he promises. “I’ve got it all under control; you will be safe, trust me.”

Harry snorts and digs back into his cold chicken. “Safe, huh? You’ve got it all under control; like you always fucking do, right, Lou?” His voice is thick with sarcasm, irritation starting to simmer up inside him as every word his boyfriend’s said starts to slap him crimson in the face. He stabs the poultry with a bit more force than necessary with his fork, hiding a smile when he sees Louis wince. “What are you going to do, make me parade around the city with a dozen bodyguards, like—like I’m Justin Bieber or something, some popstar who gets mobbed at every corner?”

There’s no response. In fact, as he cuts his chicken, the seconds past by in complete silence. There’s the remote humming from the occupied tables a good distance away, but one Louis Tomlinson hasn’t made a noise. Harry is smart enough to know that a mum Tomlinson is never a good sign, and sure enough, when he gazes back up, Louis is looking at him guiltily, biting his thumbnail.

“For fuck’s sake, are you kidding me?! A _bodyguard_ , Lou?”

“You won’t be safe by yourself, Harry,” Louis tries to reason. “It’s better this way. I can’t always be there to shoot the bad guys for you, so someone has to do it.”

The irritation that was starting to show is quickly boiling into fury. “No. No, fuck, _no_. I don’t need a bodyguard.”

“A stupid, little cunt tried to get you kidnapped because she was fucking _jealous,_ Harry!” Louis bellows. “You still can’t get over it—“

“It was scary—“

“It _was_ scary, baby,” Louis agrees. “It was fucking terrifying. She was envious; now try to imagine what someone who is irate, livid, _enraged_ is going to do to you if they can get their hands on you! Think!” 

“I don’t want to! I _can’t_ think about that, Louis, how could you ask me— _fuck_.” He stands from his chair and throws the cloth napkin on his unfinished dinner. “I’ll be back,” he murmurs.

“Where are you going?”

Harry snaps, “To the damn bathroom, _may I?_ ” He doesn’t wait for a response, stomping like a child to the restrooms. He needs to—he needs to _breathe_ , breathe in air that hasn’t been touched by Louis or their dense, fucking love. God, does he know how to choose them. Except, this feels _a lot_ bigger than that time Nick slept with someone else during junior year.

The restroom is empty, and he stands in front of the mirror, the fluorescent lights showing no mercy. He looks tired, lavender circles under his eyes that he hadn’t noticed before. Would it just get worse? Why didn’t Louis just tell him back at the dorms, where he could hide underneath the covers like a stubborn, pouty fool, refusing to come out until it was safe?       

And now, he has to deal with bodyguards, too. Just thinking about someone following him everywhere he goes, watching his every move, upsets him. He doesn’t want to live like that. He doesn’t want to look over his shoulder for the rest of his life. Harry wets his hands, patting his face, sighing at the touch of cool water on his overheated skin. He made a choice, and that choice was Louis fucking Tomlinson, and there’s nothing he can do about it now, nothing he _wants_ to do about it now, either. Love is gonna get him so fucked, he just knows it.

His attention is on his boots as he exits the gentlemen’s room, inevitably bumping into something solid. It’s not a something, but a _someone_ ; someone who’s taller than him by many inches, larger and heavier than him by a hundred or so pounds. There’s got to be nothing but muscle underneath a plain, gray Nike hoodie and blue jeans. The man’s face is hard with serious, brown eyes.

“Oh, ‘m sorry about that.”

“There’s nothing to worry about, Mr. Styles,” the man replies. His face breaks the stony composure, revealing a small, sincere smile. “I was wondering when we’d finally get properly introduced.”

“ _Oh_.” Harry runs his fingers through his hair and nods slowly, _right._ The man who’s been following him since who knows when, and will continue to follow him until, again, who knows when, has a face and a voice and a charming, reserved smile. “You’re one of them, aren’t you—one of my bodyguards? Sorry, I didn’t even know I had one until just now when my stupid boyfriend—I’m Harry Styles… but you already know that.”

“Name’s Bates, sir. At your service.”

“Bates,” Harry repeats in question.  He shakes the man’s calloused, meaty hand. “Bates? Like the motel?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Uh, never mind. You’re gonna be following me everywhere, aren’t you?” Harry asks dejectedly. “Even to Whole Foods and lectures?”

“Afraid so, Mr. Styles; direct orders from Mr. Tomlinson. You don’t have to worry about a thing under my watch,” Bates assures him. “I was with Ms. Johannah for many years before unfortunate death of the late Marcos Tomlinson, and many after.”

“It makes sense for _her_ to have bodyguards,” Harry burbles in annoyance. “The girls—Lottie, Fizzy, the twins? They have bodyguards, too, right?”

“That’s correct. As well as Mr. Tomlinson’s brothers.”

“I should get back to my table, Louis probably thinks I snuck out the restroom window,” Harry jokes. “It was really nice to meet you; to put a name and a face to the person who’s looking out for me.”

“Likewise, Mr. Styles.”

Louis’ pouring more wine into their glasses when Harry returns.  He moves the cloth napkin to the side and stares down at this dinner, cold and unwanted. “I met Bates. He seems nice.”

“Yeah,” Louis smiles hesitantly, like he doesn’t know where they stand. “He’s a nice guy. He was originally Ma’s security; he stuck with her for almost two decades. Until you, I mean.”

“Very polite,” Harry breathes noncommittally.

“We’ve known him since we were kids. He taught Liam a lot of the things he knows about boxing and helped Zayn out with—“

“Perrie and Sophia,” Harry chimes in suddenly, eyes snapping back to Louis’. “Are—where they in as much danger as I am now? Sophia was with Liam for years, right? Why did no one tell her anything?”

“Perrie’s not in any trouble,” Louis affirms. The older man sets his fork and knife on his plate, giving up on the meal completely. “She doesn’t know anything a few conspiracy theorists can’t figure out through wacky videos on YouTube. Sophia—”

“Wait, people have videos about your family on YouTube?”

Louis waves him off impatiently. “Yeah, they do, look them up later if you want. It’s a whole load of bullshit that makes a lot of sense to us and a few freaks with too much time on their hands, but not a lot of sense to normal beings, okay?”

“Okay…”

“Sophia never found out because Liam never wanted to tell her, kept putting it off, and we had to respect that. If it wasn’t for Zayn, maybe she would be in risk, too, but you’ll always be levels above everyone else because you’re with _me_.”

“With you,” Harry echoes. “I’ll always be in more danger than everyone else?”

“Yeah,” Louis answers morosely. “Everyone knows who you are, Harry, and eventually you’ll begin to meet more people from my world, and then it will become _your_ world, too. They don’t even know about your mother, but that alone is threat.”

“So—so what? I’m just going to be scared for the rest of my life? I’ll have Bates check underneath my bed, in the closets, behind the shower curtain, just for me to feel safe in my own home? Louis,” Harry cries. “No!”

“No, I’ve told you,” Louis emphasizes. “That’s my job, that’s Bates’ job, not yours. You don’t have to worry, _gattino_. I need you not to worry about this, or you’ll drive yourself insane. I know I scared you, but you needed to know the risks, needed to know about Bates and the others.”

Harry nods. “Okay, yeah. I get it. The security, the bodyguards, everything… This is my life now, and I have to get used to that. It’s just hard, it’ll take sometime to get used to. It’s…weird.” He chose Louis when he had the chance to walk away, Louis chose him, too, putting his family at risk. “But what about you? Who looks after you, if you’re looking after everyone else?”

“Don’t worry, baby.” Louis leans over and cups his jaw, caressing his cheek with a thumb. “I have my own security, and as you now know, I always carry a gun on me.”

It’s like a fucking movie, is how it feels. It’s like he’s watching it from an outsider’s perspective—he understands, yeah, fuck, he does. He understands the risks, the danger he’s in just for being with the man that he loves, but it doesn’t really settle in. Besides the initial panic and alarm, it all goes away smoothly on the surface, but it never leaves his mind. The amount of trust he has in Louis is unbelievably dangerous and stupid, but like he said before, he can’t control it. It’s like from now on, Louis’ going to put a gun in his mouth everyday that they’re together, one bullet in, five out, and Harry will never know when his luck will run out.

It feels as though he should be scared. If anyone else were in his designer boots, they would’ve ran away a long time ago—fuck blisters. The only problem is that he can’t run, he can’t hide, and he has no desire to do so.

When Harry wakes up the next morning, the big, California king bed is empty. There’s no Louis and he frowns instantly. The spot where Louis lies is still warm and Harry yanks the covers off, padding into the hallway and down the stairs in a pair of frilly, pink panties he left in a drawer a few nights before, in search for his man.

Louis’ in the kitchen, iPhone pressed to his ear, and on the island is a variety of delicious breakfast foods. From buttermilk pancakes and waffles covered in strawberries to eggs with bacon and sausages and bowls of fresh fruit. Harry plucks a piece of melon from a bowl, relishing in the natural sweetness, and stands behind Louis, wrapping his arms around the man’s small waist.

“I said no, Lottie,” Louis snaps. He grumbles a few words before hanging up, dropping the phone carelessly on the granite table. Oh, what it’s like to have money and not give a damn about materialistic possessions. His grabs Harry’s hands in his, smiling. “Morning, baby.”

“Babe,” Harry greets fondly. His eyes skim over the food, stomach rumbling. “Everything looks good, where’d you get it?”

“Get it?” Louis scoffs. He turns to face him, a teasing smile playing on his lips. At Harry’s knowing look, he slumps forward in defeat. “Fine; I had room service deliver everything a few minutes ago. You know I’ve never had any food from my own restaurant?”

“ _Mhm_ ,” Harry moans around a mouthful of thick, fluffy pancake. It’s warm bliss in his mouth, sweet and syrupy. “This is so good, Lou, you’ve got to try this!” He cuts up another piece as Louis watches him with a smile, poking a strawberry at the end of his fork. He gives his boyfriend a thumbs up as he chews, before swallowing with a glass of cold milk.

“I’m glad you like it,” Louis says and drops down on the stool besides him. He pops a bite of bacon in his mouth, chewing considerately.

“What did Lottie want?” Harry asks as he slathers a small amount of butter on his breakfast. “You didn’t sound too pleased.”

“I’m never pleased when it comes to Lottie,” Louis grunts. “She wants us at the gun range soon. Most of the family is going, too.”

“Us?”

“Yeah, I said family, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, you did,” Harry gushes, chewing on his bottom lip to keep his gleeful squeal at bay. He plops another strawberry in his mouth, jumps off the stool clumsily, and delivers a sweet, wet kiss to Louis’ cheek. “I’m going to get dressed!”

“But your breakfast!” Louis yells after him.

Lottie’s G-Wagon and Liam’s sports car are waiting for them in the parking lot of a refurbished warehouse a few miles outside the city. Besides the car and the few Tomlinsons waiting against them, it’s empty, and slightly creepy. It’s overcast, the clouds looking like they’re gonna throw a fit, and Harry’s slightly nervous—he’s never truly felt comfortable holding a gun with the intention of shooting something; he’s a pacifist, what can he say?

“Finally,” Lottie grumbles in lieu of a greeting once they’ve hopped out of Louis’ SUV. She has a Starbucks Styrofoam cup in one gloved hand, the other shoved in a pocket. Her cheeks are rosy from the cold as she turns and walks towards the entrance of the building; a simple, brown door. She turns back when she’s at the door, sleep still evident in her eyes. “Are you idiots just gonna stand there and freeze?”

“What’s wrong with kids these days?” Liam asks, wrapping an arm around Zayn’s waist. “They have no manners! No, ‘good morning, Liam,’ or ‘how did you sleep, Liam?’”

“Good morning, Li.” Zayn laughs and snuggles closer the eldest Tomlinson. “How’d you sleep, babe?”

“Morning, Zayn,” Liam says back, beaming so widely that his eyes become squinty, little things above his full cheeks. “I slept _very_ well last night, thank you for asking. Very warm and very naked.”

Louis shudders. “Dear God…”

“She’s been like that all week,” Niall says hurriedly; his eyes casted down towards the dirty, brown snow. “Her and Ma—they haven’t spoken! They got into a huge row after Halloween.”

Louis hums, gently patting Niall on the back. “We’ll worry about that later, alright? You’re here to have some fun.” He pulls the door open and ushers everyone inside. “Now it’s time to watch how Harry handles a gun,” he teases, eyes crinkling at Harry’s flushing gawk.

Harry instantly spots Lottie, chatting quietly with a heavily-built, bald man in a bomber jacket. It’s some sort of weird, lobby-type room they’ve stepped in, filled with nothing but a small, leather love seat and a fake, potted fern. The bald man lights up when he sees them walk in, showing of his brilliant, gap-toothed smile.

“Ah, there they are! Welcome back, Tomlinsons.”

“Ralphie!” Liam greets him with a firm handshake.

“Everything’s all set up in the back room for you guys,” Ralphie remarks. “Whenever you’re ready.”

After they’ve hung their coats up in a small, foyer closet, Ralphie leads them past several closed doors to the back of the building. Behind one of those doors is an impressive room filled with nothing but firearms. Much like Louis’ secret vault, there are a large variety of guns, all proudly displayed on the walls. Harry can’t really tell one gun apart from the other, can’t say what makes one special, what makes the other better. He doesn’t really understand Louis’ love for the deadly weapon, but to each their own.

It takes another door—this one with a glass panel—for them to reach the indoor shooting range. The room is long and empty, their footsteps echoing loudly. At the far end of the room are white cutouts of a faceless male, hung up and ready to be made targets, with numbered, oval-sized bull’s-eye. There are thin, black walls all in a neat row, separating each shooting section, and Louis immediately leads them towards the very last one.

Harry watches with confusion as Ralphie starts unhooking the paper cutouts and begins rolling out life-size mannequins. They’re all different colors, ranging from white to black, with arms and legs and even eyes. “What—what about the cutouts?”

“We prefer mannequins,” Zayn speaks up, grinning. “We like shooting bodies. It’s more fun that way, y’know?”

“Suuuure, if you say so,” Harry replies with a slow drawl. He turns back to Louis with round eyes, his boyfriend just chuckling at the exchange.

“How much are we betting this time?” Lottie asks, cocking a small, silver pistol. “Five grand, ten, maybe? I need new shoes,” she exclaims, glancing down at her shiny, black combat boots. Twenty sounds good, too.”

Louis rolls his eyes and turns them away from the family, settling his hands on Harry’s biceps. “I’m here to help you, okay. Any questions, jus—“

“My mom _is_ a cop,” Harry reminds him with quirked lips. “Gemma and I have been to shooting ranges with Mom before in Boston, Lou. I think I’ll be fine.”

“Holding out on me, it seems,” Louis teases. He nods and lets go of him, only to settle a pair of big, yellow ear muffs over his ears. Harry’s more than shocked to see the older male pull out a gold gun from his waistband—the same gun he saw a long time ago, stained with bloody fingerprints on Louis’ bathroom counter. The gun is huge, brilliantly gold under the incandescent lights, and _heavy_ —he’s never doubted Louis’ upper strength, and he sure as hell doesn’t now. “It’s my favorite.”

“It’s pretty,” Harry awes. He can’t help but think that his fingers would look so good wrapped around the luminous gun if his nails were painted a beautiful, deep red instead of Essie’s light coral _Resort Fling_. “Am I going to use this one?”

“Think you can handle it?” Louis taunts with a curved brow. “It’s not really for beginners.”

“You can do it, right? It can’t be _that_ hard,” Harry bites back without heat. He loves the way Louis’ face scrunches up, the way the crinkles by his eyes deepen. When he laughs, it’s almost as if years are taken from him, the weight of the world is lifted from his shoulders, and the pressure of being the next boss has vanished. Harry’s more than noticed how tense Louis’ been and he lives for moments like this where Louis is unruffled, somewhat in a relaxed state, freely smiling.

“If you insist, Princess.” Louis moves behind Harry, settling his hands on his waist. “The Desert Eagle has a bit of recoil; I’ll help you with that.” Hands—smaller than Harry’s, rougher, too—move down to his thighs, spreading his legs apart until they match up with his shoulders. “You have to stand straight, baby, don’t slouch, or you’ll never get a good shot. Put both hands on it—just like that—and lift it up until it’s at your nose, not too high, not too low.”

“Like this?” The pistol is heavy in both of his hands, biceps straining. Harry has no clue how this gun in particular can be Louis’ favorite, how he can carry it around with him, if it’s so fucking gigantic and weighty, and Louis is, well—he’s smaller than Harry, but no doubt stronger. “Don’t we need, like, bullets or something?”

Louis laughs. “Or something. The magazine is full, Harry.”

“Very anticlimactic,” Harry repeats with a demure smile.

“Smart boy.” Louis presses himself close to Harry’s body, close enough to mold them together as one, and settles his hands over Harry’s. “Okay, now listen carefully,” Louis whispers. “Cock it back. Good, just like that. Make sure the safety is off. Okay, now we’re ready to shoot.”

“Okay,” Harry breathes. “This doesn’t seem so bad.”

“Has it been awhile since you shot?”

He nods. “I never really liked it, but Mom always made sure Gem and I knew how to properly handle a gun. Protection, you know. I haven’t held a gun with the intention to shoot anything since the summer before junior year. ‘M a bit rusty.”

“What the hell is the hold up?” Lottie yells from the booth. “I need to shoot something!”

“Teenagers,” Harry hears Liam scoff from a few feet away. “I was never that rude, Z.”

“I know, babe. You were an angel.”

Louis rolls his eyes and puts on his own plain, black ear mufflers. He looks cute, and fluffy, and warm, and dangerous, and hot as _hell_ —how that’s humanly possible, he has no clue. How did Harry get so lucky? The older man grabs a hold of Harry’s hands again, closing any small amount of space between them, and sighs happily. He raises their arms so that the gold pistol is in front of them.

“You ready? If you think you have a shot, take it. Don’t hesitate,” Louis orders. “Now breathe in deeply, baby.” Harry does as he says, taking in a shaky breath, Louis’ own chest rising against his back. “Now,” Louis’ voice is sweet velvet to his ears, “shoot.”

Harry blinks and it’s all over. Louis’ finger pressed the trigger, sending vibrations running up and down Harry’s body, trembling in his core. He can feel his arms shake as he lowers the gun, but stays firm against his boyfriend, fully knowing the recoil would’ve sent him flying backwards if it wasn’t for Louis’ strength and experience.

“Oh, my—“

“I can’t believe you blinked!” Louis accuses.

“I did _not_!”

“Harry,” Louis deadpans. “I know you, and I know that you blinked. You’re the blinking type, but that could get you seriously hurt, okay? Eyes—wide—open.”

Harry bites his lip and nods slowly. “Sorry, _Daddy_ , won’t do it again.” It brings a certain pleasure to him, watching Louis’ mouth drop open and his brows curve up in surprise. Catching Louis Tomlinson off guard is rare, and Harry thrives in it, watching his lashes flutter slowly against his cheekbones, his hand reach down to—

“Oi! You cheated!” Niall’s uproarious Irish lit interrupts them from their hazy state of mind, Louis’ hand snatching away from his crotch, Harry’s eyes snapping away to mildly scowl at the bottle blond.

“It was just a practice run, Niall, get out of here.” Louis pushes the boy back into his own booth. He turns back to Harry with an easy, playful smirk. “’M proud of you, _gattino_ , you did good. Hardy moved a muscle from the kickback.” The man presses a button on a little, black box on the wall and their dummy rolls forward until Harry can reach out and touch it. “Got him straight in the head, didn’t you? That bullet would’ve smashed straight into one of the eight bones made to keep the brain safe; it’d take just a small fraction of a second for the brain to stop functioning. Dead on the spot.”

Harry swallows, gawking at the life-like dummy; it’s blank, blue eyes staring back at him.

“It’s just a mannequin, baby,” Louis tells him softly. “Don’t fret over this, okay? This is to help you, just in case.”

“Right. Just in case,” he repeats. He nods and presses the button, pushing the dummy back to its original spot. “You’re going to help me again, yeah?” Harry pleads with his pouty lips, smiling when Louis agrees.

“Just once more, Styles.”

One more time turns into two more times, then three, then four, and then an hour later, Louis is still pressed against him. They practice with the DE, before moving onto something smaller and lighter; a simple, black glock, identical to the one Louis was pushing down his throat yesterday. Harry doesn’t need Louis’ help anymore, but that warm, curvy, toned body feels so right, so good, behind him, glued together, inch by inch.

“Poor guy,” Liam chirps as he peeks into their booth, nodding at Harry’s hole-riddled mannequin. “Of course Louis would fall for a natural.” He winks—or tries to, as both of his cute, brown eyes fall shut in a quick blink—at Harry and simpers brightly. “Zayn and Niall are down ten grand; are you guys in? Lottie’s being scary. She’s so little, but, you know, scary.”

“There’s nothing we Tomlinsons love more than a little friendly competition,” Louis leers.

“’Cept food!” Niall calls out.

Liam shrugs as he heads back to his own booth. “That, too.”

“Team effort?” Harry asks brightly. He nudges Louis in the ribs with a bony elbow. “You’re gonna be my partner, right?”

“I guess,” Louis sighs in mock reluctance. “But you better win me some money, Styles. It’s fun to be richer than Liam.” Like before, he stands behind Harry, close and warm, and grips onto his narrow waist. “Li was right, Princess, you are a natural, but it’s different shooting in here, where it’s comfortable and quiet, where there are no distractions.” His breath hits the hollow behind Harry’s ear. “How will you do outside these walls, hm?”

Harry falters, “What do you—you think I’ll get distracted? You don’t think I’ll be able to?”

“I’m not saying you won’t be _able_ to,” Louis claims, hands creeping downwards to grab at his hips. “You have to think realistically, baby; an attack isn’t pretty and clean and obvious. What do you do when you don’t see it coming? What do you do if something’s distracting you from your goal?”

“But Lou,” Harry fusses. “I don’t _want_ to use a gun outside these walls. If I have to—if I have to do that, I won’t be ready. I need more time, babe, I need to be perfect.”

“That’s the thing about time, _gattino_ ,” Louis sibilates in his ear. “There’s never enough of it.” With swift movement, he presses the button again, and goes to stand behind him. “Ready,” he clamors.

“Ready!” Niall shouts back gleefully.

“Okay, just do as we practiced,” Louis instructs. “Watch out for Lottie—she has the best shot besides me, took after Marcos in that department.”

They get in position and Harry cocks the gun, buzzing with vigor from his head to his toes. “Okay, okay,” he mumbles to himself. “Gun is good. Magazine is full.” He does a quick check to see more bullets on the table besides them. “Have to beat Lottie.”

Speaking of the devil, the blonde teenager starts barking orders from her booth across the room. “Rules! This is a group thing, no solos. You can switch, whatever, it doesn’t matter, but you have to get the fifty shots. Aim for the good parts: head, chest, or—my favorite—the groin. That arm and leg shit doesn’t count, got it?”

“What?” Harry cries, whipping back to glare at Louis. “Is she serious about that,” he hisses.

“Yeah,” Louis sighs, wincing. “She has, um…”

“Character flaws, perhaps,” he deadpans.

“Yeah! Character flaws. I worry sometimes, you know, but.” Louis shrugs. “Retail therapy can only do so much when you have slight violence issues.”

The boy narrows his eyes. “Why do I have a feeling you’re much, much worse than her?”

Louis’ grin is bright and crooked, Cheshire at it’s finest. “Always go with your gut, babe. Now, c’mon, let’s do this.”

There’s a startling beeping noise before the guns start going off, the room filled with nothing but the sounds of bullets leaving the barrel and piercing straight through the dummies. Following Louis’ instructions, Harry’s locked gaze doesn’t leave his mannequin. He holds back a content giggle when his second shot hits the chest, but the one after it gets an arm.

To his uncertainty, Louis’ hands start wandering, one of them moving from his love handles to settle warmly on his chest before trailing down slowly to the top of his jeans. Harry jerks when he feels calloused finger pads pressing against his skin, under the waistband of the denim, his shot not getting anywhere near his mannequin.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Harry blurts loudly.

“Concentrate, _gattino_.”

“No! Stop touching me,” he demands. “You’re distracting me!”

“That’s the fucking point,” Louis growls in his ear. His fingers keep moving down, until they’re underneath his panties, tracing his smooth skin. “You have to concentrate, work through these distractions, Harry.”

Harry gulps and keeps firing, trying to keep his mind on the goal as he changes the magazine as quick as possible. Louis doesn’t pull away, doesn’t stop touching him, no matter how much he whines. Hell, Harry doesn’t even _know_ if Louis can hear his pathetic, little whimpers over the ear mufflers and gun shots. His finger lurches over the trigger when Louis wraps his hand around him, tugging on him slowly and painfully, the dry drag leaving him breathless.

“Don’t stop, Harry,” Louis proclaims. “Those bullets need to be hitting one of those three spots. I don’t like to lose.”

It takes all of Harry’s might to lift the gun back up and fire, panting from both the pull on his arms and the way Louis’ playing with his precome. He goes slower at changing the magazine, not bothering with any real effort—he lost. He knows he lost and he’s terribly okay with it. His body keeps trembling from a dangerous concoction of pain and pleasure, both mixing together in a bizarre, bittersweet cocktail.

“I like playing games with you, Princess,” Louis laughs lowly, heartily, into his ear. “We always have so much fun, don’t we?”

When Louis’ white canines sink into his neck unexpectedly, Harry yelps and jerks, firing a shot towards the ceiling. He drops the gun carefully, with an angry huff, on the table, and yanks his ear muffs off before snatching off Louis’ and throwing them on the concrete ground. “Such a fucking dick,” he mutters as he grabs Louis’ hand, hastily pulling him towards the nearest exit.

“The fuck you going?” Zayn calls after them.

“Oh, give it up,” Lottie sneers, lowering her semi-automatic. “I won by a big margin. Now, where’s my twenty thousand?”

“Harry! We don’t even have our coats!” Louis cackles as they step out, snow crunching under their shoes.

“Don’t worry, you’ll be sweating in a minute.” Harry unlocks the Range Rover and manages to push a lax Louis into the back seat. “You made us lose,” he blames, voice muffled. He’s happy between Louis’ open thighs, struggling to get his hoodie over his hair. “I thought you said you didn’t like to lose.” 

Louis only laughs again, that high, raspy sound. “Look at you, baby.” He helps Harry out of his pullover, throwing it towards the front seats, and beams white. He cups the boy’s jaw and presses a kiss to the bigger of the two swallows on his chest. “I’m a Tomlinson, princess, I don’t lose.”

“Then why did you—“

“They’re in there,” he nods towards the building, “and I’m in here, with the most beautiful, sweetest, sexiest boy on the planet. Who’s the real winner?”

Harry's giggling, bursting into laughter when Louis' fingers find his tickle spot, both of them rolling onto the floor of the SUV. He tries to catch his breath, eyes watering, with Louis resting all his weight on top of him in the small space. Louis' mouth finds the soft skin under his jaw, and Harry can't help but close his eyes as smooth lips leave hot, open mouthed kisses, sinking into the feeling. He snakes an arm around his boyfriend and up his neck, until Harry's fingers are tugging on silky, brown strands and pulling him closer closer closer. 

Louis' wrong, though, Harry knows. If anyone is a winner here, it's Harry. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [twitter](https://twitter.com/inhalethedark) if you'd like to come say hi. Thanks for the kudos and comments! You guys make my day :)
> 
> Until next time!


	21. Naughty and Nice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this chapter in like... summer of last year lmfao. I was bitter. Please excuse me. **This is fiction! None of this is real. Just because I kill someone in this story, does not mean I wish them any harm whatsoever in real life. These are characters, and as much as they annoy me I do not wish them ill.**
> 
> I have a WKFWDF [Spotify playlist here](https://open.spotify.com/user/inhalethepuredark/playlist/2g6aC9xYleLvOIZ4VhF1g7) if you're interested. Feel free to leave song suggestions.
> 
>  
> 
> **Disclaimer: Not mine! Simply rewrote and adapted it. All rights belong to Johnnyboy7 on fanfiction.net. If you're confused about this, please check out my notes in Chapter One. I also don't own One Direction.**

* * *

_"Having a soft heart in a cruel world is courage, not weakness.” - Katherine Henson_

 

 

He trails the pads of his fingers up and down the small of his boy’s back. They’re naked, snug and comfortable under Louis’ cotton, Egyptian sheets as, in typical November fashion; the winds thrash frantically outside the glass walls. He couldn’t care less about the cold right now—not when Harry’s ivory skin is under his touch, warm, glabrous, and all his—couldn’t give a damn about the way Chicago moves slower when the lake freezes over and the _Windy City_ comes to life.

He’s lying on his side, elbow propped up, simply watching Harry’s form gently shift with every inhale and exhale. Louis’ mentally and physically exhausted, and the throbbing problem pressed against a small, perky ass isn’t helping him out, either. He always thought that Harry was mature for his age, especially considering the college freshman is away from his parents for the first time, in a new, exciting city nonetheless, but—but _fuck_ _it_ if the eighteen year old doesn’t wear him out. He’s _tired_ and his limbs are sore from where Harry jumped him in the shower before bed last night and Louis held him up against the wet glass. His biceps have only gotten bigger since he’s met Harry, at least.

That’s not to say he doesn’t _love_ it. He loves how insatiable his boy can be, how spontaneous he is, how he’ll let Louis do anything he pleases in the bedroom. Harry let him put a gun in his mouth, what else is there to really say on that topic? It seems as though his dick is always hard around Harry, especially after watching just how powerful and confident Harry was with a gun, firing round after round with ease. A complete natural with the guns, his boy is. He only has to think of the scenes at the gun range for his dick to, almost comically, start fattening up.

Like on cue, Harry squirms, scooting backwards until Louis slips between his ass cheeks. “’M tired,” he croaks, voice low and heavy with sleep. He reaches down to move Louis’ dick away, and twists around until he’s mirroring Louis’ position, sheets pushed down his to ankles. “I got hot. Hi.”

“Hi.” Louis’ never been as comfortable with another human being as he is with Harry Styles. Some days—when he first wakes up to a mouthful of curls, or when Harry prepares his tea just right, or dances and prances around to Top40 music while cleaning his dorm room (after much insistence on Louis’ part)—he finds himself thinking just how bizarre it is that he feels as though he’s known this boy forever. He catches himself grinning when he comes across something that reminds him of Harry during the day, and sort of freaks out during his daily realizations that he wouldn’t be opposed to having something, someone, that makes him smile over silly, little things for the rest of his life.

“What’s got you thinking so hard, babe?” Harry reaches out to smooth the indents between his brows. “You’re gonna get wrinkles, you know? To match your silver hair and gold cane.”

“Don’t say that.” Louis frowns. “Why are you so mean to me, Styles?”

“It’s okay,” Harry whispers, moving his hand down to trace his jaw with a long finger. “You know how I like ‘em.”

“Old?”

“Mhm.” Harry nods with a smile. “Jesus sandal-wearing, biology-teacher, soccer-dad old."

“You’ll never find me wearing Jesus sandals,” Louis replies, crinkling his nose. He hopes Harry isn’t going to—

“Oh?” Harry raises his eyebrows, and yep, he’s going there. “What about soccer dad? I don’t know, I think you’d look damn hot in a uniform, running after little kids, teaching them the tricks of the trade.”

“I don’t think so, Harry,” Louis answers with finality. His boyfriend only huffs and flops onto his back after that, the bedroom going quiet once more. He knows how much Harry loves babies; always talking with joy in his eyes when he sees a little tot at the grocery store, or passes a baby store on the street, or a finds out that a friend from Boston is pregnant. Louis can only pray that it’s something that will wear off eventually—the picture of him running after little kids like Harry described doesn’t bring him any kind of joy, it just makes him cringe.

“I’m going to get the guitar,” Harry announces suddenly, kicking the sheets off his feet and crawling on his knees until he reaches the edge of the bed, before finally jumping off, stark naked. Louis only watches his ass jiggle slightly as he tugs on Louis’ boxers, curls bouncing as he prances out of the room.

Louis groans and flips onto his stomach, rolling onto the heat where Harry slept. His phone starts ringing seconds later and he sinks his face into the lavender scented pillow, refusing to move another inch. He could just stay right there all day and not be bothered, but as the phone quiets down and starts blaring not a moment later, he knows that’s not how life works. He moves to his nightstand and unplugs the phone from the charger, rolling his eyes at Liam’s monkey face before answering.

“Louis?”

“Who else,” he snaps. “What do you want? I was sleeping.”

Liam makes a disagreeing noise. “Isn’t Harry with you?”

“Yeah, so?”

“Then you weren’t sleeping, c’mon, man. How’s it going,” the eldest Tomlinson asks pleasantly.

“Liam,” he whines. “Just get to the point, will you?”

“Fine, fine,” his brother grumbles. “Get dressed, lover boy, we’ve got work to do. I know there wasn’t anything scheduled, bro, but we’ve got a runaway—Z says it’s one of Alexei’s guys, but… the guy is kinda weird. He keeps looking at Zayn all funny.”

“I’m _really_ tired,” Louis stresses, voice muffled by the pillow. “Can’t you two take care of it? Hell, take Niall with you. I don’t want to deal with that right now.”

“Nope, we need you. What are you tired from, fucking Harry?”  Liam asks through a throaty laugh. “What have you been doing all day?”

“Trying to walk,” Louis replies dryly. He stands from the bed and wanders into his closet, plucking a t-shirt from the rack and some jeans from his drawer. “Fuck off, Liam. Go suck Zayn’s dick or something. Make yourself useful.” He hangs up at Liam’s affronted squawk and jumps into the leg holes of the denim just as Harry walks in, guitar strap on his shoulder, fingers strumming softly.

“You have to go?”

Louis nods, pulling on the shirt. “Duty calls,” he mutters with a grimace. He slips into a pair of blue Adidas shoes and shrugs on his sturdiest denim jacket. He watches Harry remove the strap from his shoulders and gently lean the guitar against the closet door. “I don’t really know when I’ll be back, baby. Don’t wait up.”

“It’s fine.” Harry nods, smiling softly.

Louis cringes at the thought of leaving his warm nest with Harry and facing the cold outside. He pulls Harry to him and wraps them both around his jacket, loving the way his boyfriend’s heated skin fits against his. They slot perfectly together, like pieces of a puzzle.

Harry circles his arms around Louis’ waist, hiding his face in the crook of his neck. “I’ll be here when you come back. Maybe I’ll find inspiration and write some lyrics—I haven’t done that in a while.”

“Mhm,” Louis hums. “Maybe.” They don’t pull apart for a few, long moments, until Harry sighs and steps back from their blue jean cuddle, and runs his long fingers through Louis’ disheveled hair. The older man instantly loses the warmth and steps closer, chasing his boy’s body, and pressing his lips to Harry’s jaw. “I have to go,” he mumbles.

“I know. Be safe, yeah? You promised me…”

“I always keep my wor—“

“No bruises,” Harry interrupts with a sharp tone. “No bruises, no cuts, no bleeding.  I want you back safe and sound.”

Louis laughs breezily. “You need to toughen up, babycakes.”

“No, I don’t! I’m tough, I’m masculine—I promise,” Harry jokes. “Football, beer, manly things.”

“I have to go,” Louis repeats. He doesn’t want to move from their embrace, doesn’t want to detach his lips from Harry’s intoxicating skin. He presses a kiss to sleep-swollen lips once, twice, three times until Harry giggles and pushes him away.

“Go,” Harry orders. He grabs Louis’ hand from his waist and pulls him out of the closet and into the hallway.  “I’ll see you later, alligator.”

“After a while, crocodile," he answers with a soft grin. 

Louis’ in the Range Rover sooner than he’d like, maneuvering through the silent streets of the city. It’s getting close to midnight, the sky is already a cold black, the temperature dropping with the minutes. The bare trees whip around, the sound reaching him inside the heated car. He’s pulling up to their warehouse soon enough and all he can think about is being back at the penthouse with Harry, snuggled underneath the covers, watching the way Harry’s fingers move over the strings of the guitar.

He wants to go _home_. Home, the penthouse—wherever Harry is. Months ago the penthouse was just that: a large apartment with a comfortable bed and his personal belongings. He knows, as he locks the door behind him, that there’s a man near his death in the warehouse, and for the first time in his life, he doesn’t really care. Sure, a part of him gets excited, but mostly he’s just cold and undecided. And—as he enters the building and spies his brothers lounging around—frustrated.

“What the hell is this?” he growls, exchanging annoyed looks with the three, bored men sat on white, plastic chairs. He did not jump out of bed and leave Harry alone for _this_. “Don’t we have shit to do?”

“Calm down, tiger,” Liam greets, waving hello. He nods over to a man bonded to a similar patio chair. The man is bulky and sweating despite the blue color of his pursed lips, his skin several shades ranging from blue to crimson to violet. His brothers must have gotten to him before Louis came. The man is dressed in a tattered white tee and red, velour sweat pants. Louis spies a matching jacket thrown on the ground a few feet away. He's clearly stuck in the early 2000's.

“This is him? He doesn’t like look one of Alexei’s usual guys.”

Liam nods slowly, eyeing Zayn. “He, um, he’s only talked to Z, but we thought we’d give you the honors to finish him up.”

Louis quirks a brow with interest and shrugs out of his jacket, hanging it from the back of a chair. “And why’s that?”

“He used to work for Eric Shaer before he got dropped,” Zayn speaks up, making a face at their last encounter with the Libyan boss. No one’s forgotten how much Shaer and his people want Zayn on their side, but loyalty is a Tomlinson’s strong suit. He runs a tatted hand through his flat hair carelessly, shrugging. “This guy wants to be a producer or something, I dunno, man, and Shaer wasn’t into it. Alexei Lucas picked him up after Chloe decided she wants a music career.”

At the mention of the spoiled Greek heiress, the wannabe producer groans in dismay. “Nothing, mixed with nothing, will create… Nothing.”

“What does that even mean,” Liam mumbles, confusion spilled on his wrinkled face.

Zayn ignores him and continues. “He’s only been working for Alexei for a few months now, but he has some good information about you.  Apparently _moussaka_ , _youvetsi_ , and Harry Styles are regulars at the Lucases’ family dinner.” 

Louis hums, taking a step closer to the man, staring into his beady, black eyes. “What else did you find out?” He gets immediate bad vibes from the man the longer he looks at him.

“Alexei knows everything about Harry,” Niall informs him. Louis doesn’t miss the slight sheen of sweat on the boy’s rosy skin, the bloody wounds on his knuckles. “He sees him as your Achilles’ heel.”

Louis rolls his eyes at that. “Who fucking doesn’t?” He grabs the back of the occupied chair and drags it to the middle of the room, the legs threatening to fold in. The man’s face hangs down and he cowers, hunched into himself. “So, who’s this?”

“Shahid—“

“It’s Naughty Boy,” the man gnarrs. His tone is agitated, angry, despite his submissive posture. “ _Everyone_ calls me Naughty Boy.”

Niall snorts and leans back in his chair, folding his hands behind his head. “ _Who_ calls you that?”

Louis squats down in front of him and grabs his chin, jerking it upwards until they’re eye to eye. “What are you doing working for Alexei? I didn’t think he let people into his business that easily, especially not ones who’ve worked for Eric Shaer, as well.”

“I produce his daughter’s music,” Shahid answers evenly.

Ah, the help. The thing about the hired help is that they always know too much, intentionally or not. No one ever thinks much of them, some even forget that they’re there in the first place, but Louis knows better than that. There is no one better to pry information from than the help—the drivers, cooks, maids, even dog walkers. It’s a good thing Johannah keeps everything in the family; even better that some of their relatives can’t speak a lick of English.

“Tell me everything that Alexei Lucas knows about Harry,” Louis demands.

“A thousand battles, a thousand victories with the Lucases,” Shahid says smugly, a smirk playing on his lips. “The future’s bright with the Greeks; they’re powerful and you’ll be irrelevant.”

“Answer the fucking question,” Zayn spits.

“Zayn _Malik_ ,” Shahid calls out, twisting his neck to get a better look at the confused man. “You think we don't know about you, where you come from?  Do you even know that you have a family?”

“I-I already have a family,” Zayn stutters. He glances at Liam with perplexed, gold eyes, and then at Louis. Louis’ mouth goes dry; his brother’s family has always been a sore topic within the Tomlinson household. Zayn’s parents weren’t good people and Johannah did everything she could to protect him while helping him keep his heritage, but there was always that lingering notion that Zayn’s biological family might want to reach out to him someday. “These are my brothers.”

“What about your _real_ family?” Shahid shoots back. “Eric Shaer wants you, Zayn, he wants to help you reach your potential. You don’t think this cracker quartet will turn on you the second things go to shit? _Bhaiya,_ do you think they really have your back when they don’t even know who you really are?”

“Oi!” Niall scowls. “Stop trying to turn him against us.”

“No one is against anyone here,” Shahid states with a satisfied smile. He turns back to Zayn with intense eyes. “ _Malik_ is the name of the King, Zayn, but you ain’t sitting on a throne with these pawns, are you?”

“That’s enough,” Liam snips, stepping between the bonded man and Zayn. He splutters, glowering at the grinning man. If there’s anyone more frightened than Louis when it comes to losing his brother, it’s Zayn’s _jaan_ , Liam. A Tomlinson’s strong suit is loyalty; blood over everything, and Louis knows Zayn would never turn their back on them. Liam should know that by now, too, shouldn’t he?

“What does Alexei know about Harry?” Louis asks again, desperate to get the attention away from Zayn, whom hasn’t spoken another word. “What is he planning?”

Shahid rolls his eyes, a bit too feisty for a man tied up to lawn furniture. “Nothing. Everyone knows that he’s yours. Chloe Lucas told Alexei everything he really needed to know—he hadn’t heard of the boy before whatever happened on Halloween.”

“And he’s not planning anything?” Louis confirms.

“I don’t fucking know!” Shahid snaps, before taking a big breath and visibly calming himself down. “Calm down, Naughty Boy,” he murmurs to himself. “Hate doesn’t belong here.”

 “Just fucking answer me,” Louis barks. “Stop pulling quotes out of your ass.” He’s too tired for this, doesn’t have the energy to fuck around with this man. What kind of grown man calls himself _Naughty Boy?_ He cuts to the chase and pulls out his semi-automatic,  and holds the barrel to Shahid’s trembling chin. “Talk.”

“Alright, damn, fine,” Shahid blurts. “He just wants to know Harry, I suppose. He’s interested in knowing, I dunno, how involved you are with him.”

“You think he’d want to meet H?” Liam questions, pacing back and forth.

Shahid licks his lips, answering for Louis. “I believe so.”

All the dots connect for Louis. “He wants _me_ ,” he realizes out loud, _duh_. “Alexei Lucas couldn’t give two shits about Harry; it’s me he’s after. In Russia, Makar said the same thing—the Lucases are worried about me.”

“But why?” Niall wonders with big, blue curious eyes. His arms drop down to his sides and he grimaces. “Ma isn’t going anywhere; she’s not going to give up the reign soon, is she?”

“No, of course not.” Louis releases the steel pressure of the gun on Shahid’s chin and looks back at his brothers. “How different would everything be if I wasn’t in the picture?”

“Lou, what the hell are you talking about?” Zayn speaks up again, standing from his chair. His eyes dart nervously towards Shahid. He has his gun out, too, gripped tightly in his fingers and a baffled expression on his sculpted face.

“It wouldn’t be the same if I wasn’t around to be head after Ma,” Louis explains. “It’d be easier if I was out of the way, if I wasn’t looming over everything in the future. I’m the game changer.”

“Easier for _them_ , maybe,” Liam agrees.

“From what I know, there was never a plan to kill Harry Styles,” Naughty Boy chimes in breezily. He has that stupid haughty look on his face, lips pursed like he’s sucking on a lemon. “You know, they still want to see if he’s a threat to the Lucas family or not."

Niall cackles at that, Liam chuckling. “Harry? A threat?”

“That’s all I know.” Shahid sniffles delicately and shifts in his restraints. “Can I go now? Someone has to record Chloe with an iPhone and call it producing. Time is money.”

“Where did you pick this guy up?” Niall mumbles to Liam.

“Zayn!” Shahid shouts one more time. “Respect yourself enough to walk away from anything that no longer serves you, grows—“

“You talk a lot of shit, man,” Louis grumbles, shoving a dirty rag into the man’s mouth mid-cry.

Normally, it’s Zayn that excitedly pours fuel over someone’s body, but this time, the thin boy is mum. Instead, Liam shoots his boyfriend a wary look before unscrewing the cap of the gasoline tank, pouring it liberally over Shahid’s body. The man thrashes chaotically in his seat, like a wild animal in a cage, his violent screams become simple muffles with the fabric balled up in his mouth. His eyes are shut tight, tears pooling down his full cheeks, as the slick oil rolls down his body and fills the room with the toxic scent.

The Tomlinson men stand by as Louis flicks the wheel of his lighter until it burns up bright blue, and bends down to light the path of gas, the flames quickly running towards Shahid’s feet. In less than a second the red fire catches brightly and travels hastily, going up the man’s Nike-clad feet and up his legs until his whole body is nothing but flames, a personal inferno eating away at his flesh. The scent of burning skin fills the warehouse and Louis’ stomach churns unpleasantly.

“This the worst part of job,” he mutters, cringing as a piece of flesh melts off Shahid’s body and falls to the concrete.

“The killing?” Niall asks innocently. His eyes are glued to the chaotic scene in front of them, nose wrinkled in disgust.

“No, the cleanup,” Louis replies with a scowl. “Look at that. Is that his ear?”

The blond teenager shrugs. “Kinda looks like bacon, if you squint real hard.”

Liam grimaces before sneaking a glance at his shiny, black watch. “That’s fucking disgusting, Niall.” They all watch as Shahid slowly squirms on the ground, the rope that was around his wrists and ankles is nothing but ashes. “Listen,” Liam says, quickly gazing at a silent Zayn before moving closer to Louis. “I’m going to take Z home, okay? I think he’s—I think there’s some things we should talk about, just us two. Do you think you and Ni can handle this?”

“Yeah, ‘course,” Louis agrees easily. It’s not hard to tell that Zayn’s still a bit stunned Shahid’s words. His nose wrinkles and he pushes Liam towards Zayn, their bodies colliding gently. “You two go, we’ve got this. Niall’s got to learn sometime.”

Liam pats a startled Niall on the back, shooting him a gentle smile. “I’ll see you later, okay, kid?” Niall nods and with that, Liam leads Zayn out of the warehouse with tense shoulders and a firm grip, the door shutting with a soft thud behind them.

“Zayn’s going to be okay?” Niall asks. “I didn’t really understand what happened with Z and him.” He turns his chin up at Shahid, the man still gasping on the ground.

“Don’t worry about it,” Louis answers. He doesn’t really understand it either, but his new, impressionable brother doesn’t need to know that just yet. Silence consumes them, watching the way Shahid jerks in agony on the concrete, his body covered in sore, scarlet blisters. Maybe that’s why Louis prefers baptizing bodies with fire instead of just shooting them point blank; death by inferno is one of the most painful ways to die, and besides the fact that the method takes forever, while your skin melts off and you lose too much fluid, your heart doesn’t stop beating despite it all.

He doesn’t think twice before he’s handing his weapon over to the small boy besides him. “You can handle it, right, Niall?”

The said boy splutters in response, before taking the gun into his hands. Niall cocks it like he was taught, with confidence and ease, and points it to Shahid’s head. His arms don’t tremble, even after a few minutes. Niall can’t seem to pull the trigger, round, blue eyes blinking wetly.

“Niall,” Louis sighs. _This_ he understands. Nothing as terrifying and, as dramatic as it sounds, life changing as a boy’s first kill. “He’s nothing, Ni. You can’t think of him as a person, or you’ll never be able to do it.”

“B-but,” Niall stutters, his hands steady around the weapon. “But he _is_ a person, Lou.”

“Alright, then you have to ask yourself why he’s here.”

“Why is he here? I dunno, I—,” Niall swallows. “He knows too much? He has information that might hurt us.”

“That’s right,” Louis agrees with the nicest tone he can achieve. He hates the idea of manipulating Niall, but it has to be done. The young male has to see things in a certain light, or else go mad with guilt. “He knows too much, doesn’t he? He wants to hurt our family; he wants to take Zayn away.”

“And Harry,” Niall mutters to himself lowly. “He knows about H. He could hurt Harry.”

“ _Alexei_ could hurt Harry,” Louis clarifies. “Shahid works for Alexei, doesn’t he? Plus he has ties with Eric Shaer. If we don’t get rid of Shahid, what will he do?”

“He’ll run,” Niall declares. “He’ll tell Alexei.”

“So? What are you going to do?”

“The Tomlinson’s don’t leave survivors,” Niall affirms. This time his finger doesn’t hesitate over the trigger, pulling it back efficiently. The gold bullet flies through the air and rips through Shahid’s skull, brain matter splattering  onto the cement. Shahid stills instantly and Louis lets out an anxious breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

When blood starts seeping out, Louis turns back to Niall only to find the boy panting heavily, gun still propped in the air like nothing had happened. Niall’s eyes are unseeing and his hands tremble, a grip so tight that Louis has to pry the semi-automatic out of his hands with force. He catches Niall before he can fall, his body dead weight in Louis’ arms.

“You’re okay, you’re okay,” Louis whispers, pressing his fingertips to Niall’s icy cheeks. “I’m so proud of you, yeah? You protected us from someone who could’ve hurt us, and ‘m proud of you.”

Niall breathes profoundly, quaking in his sneakers and nods slowly. He detaches himself from Louis and snaps his eyes from the body on the cold, hard ground. “Not a person,” he repeats Louis wryly in his thick accent. “He was a-a threat to the family.”

“ _Our_ family,” the eldest of the two agrees. “Now c’mon, let’s get out of here.” Louis has to physically guide Niall to the exit and keep an eye on him as he locks up. Once at the Range Rover, he opens the passenger door for the boy and helps him climb up, trembles still shaking his body. The drive back to the penthouse is filled with Harry’s favorite indie music station and Niall’s whimpers.

It’s maddening, not being able to help his brother. And as though it feels like yesterday, Louis remembers his first kill—the image sharp like watching it replay on an LED screen. A first kill isn’t something a man forgets overnight, or even after a few years; it haunts the mind and body, and it can never be completely wiped away. Back then, Louis was _ready_. He was ready to join the family, was prepared emotionally and physically, ready to face every obstacle that jumped in front of him as a Tomlinson, but is Niall?

He clears his throat, chancing a look over at the mumbling blond. “How’re you?” He asks, instantly cringing. He _knows_ how Niall feels, and it isn’t like sunshine and budding clover leaves.

“I’m ‘kay,” Niall lies.

“I know it’s hard,” Louis says, empathizing. “You don’t have to lie, Ni. We’ve all been where you are today, me, Z, Liam, even Lottie. It gets easier each time,” he promises.

“Does it?”

“Yes,” Louis reassures him. “It does. One day, you won’t even blink. It won’t register anymore, okay?”

“Killing people?” Niall repeats with incredulity, his voice meek. “ _Killing_ won’t make me blink? I don’t—I don’t know if I want to be that kind of person.”

Louis swallows hard, knuckles whitening as they tighten around the leather steering wheel. “Like me, you mean? _Us_?”

“N-no, no,” Niall splutters, turning to face him. “You’re a good person, Lou. You do this for the family, but—“

“So did you,” he interrupts. “That’s what you did in there, Niall. Shahid may have just been a cocky idiot who went snooping around places he shouldn’t have, but there will be more like him, worse than him.” Louis sends him a sure smile. “Don’t think you have to do this alone—it’s a team effort.”

Niall nods then, shifting his eyes to the trembling hands in his lap. It’s quiet again, James Bay’s croons filling the air between them, until the younger man shifts in the seat and speaks up again. “Harry—do you—do you love him?”

Louis doesn’t hesitate. “I do,” he admits. Loves him more than anything. More than words can explain. Louis still doesn't know if there's a end to his love for Harry, but it feels bottomless to him. 

“You keep him safe,” Niall states quietly. “You would do anything for him?”

“Yeah, ‘course I would,” Louis answers curiously. He looks over at Niall, who has his head against the cool windows, eyes closed. “Where’s this coming from?”

The usually bubbly boy shrugs in defeat. His body is slumped and the heat he breathes out creates fog on the window. “Just tell me ‘bout it?”

“About me and Harry?” Louis asks, a brow furrowed in interest. Niall’s never shown much interest to his relationship with Harry, always brushing them off or rolling his eyes when they show a bit too much PDA. “Harry is..,” he starts cautiously. “New to my life. I never thought I would find anyone like him. I honestly believed I would have to get married to some girl named, like, Eleanor or something like that, and move out to suburbs and have two point five brats, but,” he laughs lightly, his own nose wrinkling in distaste. “Not anymore.

“I never really knew how much of me was missing until I met Harry,” Louis continues sappily. He’s almost scared of turning into a puddle of sticky, gooey maple syrup; sickeningly sweet. “I can’t imagine being without him now, I can’t go back to a life without him now that I have him.” He glances over Niall, who’s gawking at him with the utmost confused expression.

“I don’t get it,” Niall declares with a pout. “Would your life be terribly different if Harry wasn’t around?”

Louis makes an agreeing noise, pulling into his designated spot in the parking garage of his building. He turns the car off and twirls the key chain around his index. “When you find someone, your… deepest love, everything around you shifts. Things that were once important aren’t priorities anymore, and things you never thought twice about, you’re suddenly considering them.”

Niall tilts his head to the side like a puzzled, yellow lab pup. “Considering what?”

“I don’t know. Things.  I don’t really understand it myself,” Louis chuckles with honesty. “You’ll understand when you meet someone and they change your perspective on things. You just have to let life run its course, or whatever.”

“I thought that—that if I did what you lads do, then I would become evil, like—like _him_.”

“Like who?”

“Makar,” Niall whispers. His blue eyes are wet and he blinks them rapidly, a small flush covering his usually rosy cheeks. “I thought if I killed someone, I’d be as wicked as him, but ‘m not, right? I’m not like him at all.”

“You’re not,” Louis reassures, flicking him softly on the knee. “You’re nothing like that abusive cunt. He was a piece of shit, but you’re only looking out for your family.”

“S-so it’s alright then? That I don’t feel bad for killing Shahid?” Niall questions. “Is it okay that I don’t feel guilty ‘bout it?”

Louis shakes his head. The windows are fogging up and the car is quickly cooling down. He’s only a short elevator ride away from snuggling under the covers with Harry, maybe with cup of hot chocolate and marshmallows. “It’s perfectly normal. Besides, he was kinda dead, anyway, wasn’t he? Smug bastard.”

Niall sighs in relief and Louis can’t help but be slightly amazed at the boy’s thinking process, how innocent he is besides everything he’s been through. Like Harry, Niall still holds a naïve, childlike-vulnerability that Louis never experienced—they don’t fully comprehend how seriously dangerous things can get. A person might read the paper and watch the news and sympathize, but it will never be the same unless they go through it themselves and get firsthand experience. Neither Niall nor Harry will feel the threat of looming death until it knocks on their own doorsteps.

From a small age, Louis learned quickly that it’s either _you_ and _your family_ , or them—the lethal strangers, the ones who put the bull’s-eye on _your family_ , the ones who wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger. It’s something that Niall is going to have to learn if he wants to be a proper Tomlinson, and Harry, too, someday.

Despite Niall’s attempt at a confident smile and his reassuring _I’m okay_ s, Louis knows better. He’s been in the same position. He knows Niall’s going to be fucked up for a while; first the fire, the burning of Shahid, the charring of his skin, and then Niall pulling the trigger on someone for the first time. It changes a person, and Louis can still remember the vivid night terrors he had after his first kill.

The ride up to the penthouse is quiet; the loud _ding_ of the elevator doors opening to Louis’ penthouse startles them both. The penthouse itself is quiet and warm, and they hang their coats up in the foyer closet. Louis leads them into the kitchen where he grabs the Spider-man jar filled with cookies and sets a glass of cold milk in front of Niall on the island.

“Pick a guestroom for tonight. It’s too late to drive you back to the Estate.” Louis looks down at the chocolate chip cookie in his hand appreciatively. “Aren’t these good?” Niall nods, crumbs around his mouth. “Harry made them.”

“What did I make?” Harry asks, walking into the kitchen with sleep-ruffled hair and raspberry lips. He blinks and makes his way over to Louis with partially opened eyes, instantly hiding his face in the crook of the man’s neck. “Hi.”

“Why aren’t you in bed, huh?” He pats his bottom and grabs him closer, fingers gripping into the soft skin on the side of Harry’s hips.

“I couldn’t sleep without you,” Harry breathes out.  He snuggles closer to Louis, dressed only in a thin, white scoop neck Louis’ sure belongs to his closet, Harry’s legs smooth and bare and magnificently long. His thoughts change from admiring how fucking cute his _gattino_ is, to how fucking _amazing_ those legs look wrapped around his waist, until Niall’s clearing his throat and Harry is snapping his neck back, eyes widening as he notices the boy.

“I hope you don’t mind, but Niall’s spending the night here,” Louis mentions, fighting back a laugh as Harry tugs down on the shirt to cover his pantie-clad ass.

“No, no,” Harry says, smiling timidly, one hand still pulling on the fabric of the shirt. “Of course I don’t mind. The guestroom downstairs has fresh sheets and you can have as many cookies as you’d like, Niall.”

“’ery ‘ood,” Niall mumbles around a mouthful of chocolate chip. He reaches a hand out towards the cookie jar for another handful, and Louis watches the way Harry’s eyes flash when they take notice of Niall’s raw knuckles. 

“Niall!” Harry exclaims, staring wide-eyed at the blond’s bloody hands. “What happened? Do they hurt a lot?” He snaps his own paw out and grabs Niall’s, forcing the boy to drop his cookie onto the marble countertop.

“Nah,” Niall denies, shaking his head, floppy, light strands falling into his eyes. He gazes down at the chewy cookie in defeat and sighs. “It only stings if I bend them, but they’re okay.”

Harry gapes at Louis. “Look what you did!”

“ _What_ did I do?” Louis cries in confusion. He shoots his best, wide-eyed, innocent look, which he hopes works, considering he is rather innocent of whatever Harry is accusing him of.

“H, no, stop, I’m—“ Niall is lunging for the deserted cookie, when Harry wraps an arm around his shoulder and leads him over to the sink. Louis winces in sympathy as Niall has his hands dipped into the hot, misty water, blood running down the drain. “I said I was fine,” Niall grits through clenched teeth.

“It could get infected,” Harry reasons. “I don’t even want to know what you were up to.” The t-shirt clad teenager sniffs delicately at Niall’s shoulder and scrunches his nose up. “Or why _both_ of you smell like a bonfire. I find it very hard to believe you went out to the suburbs and spent the night roasting marshmallows and exchanging ghost stories like camp.”

Louis knows better than to laugh, but it’s a struggled, watching his boyfriend and new, kid brother argue about silly scrapes. Despite being a year younger than Niall, Harry is a complete mother hen, frowning deeply and giving instructions on how to apply Neosporin correctly. It’s almost like a frightening sense of déjà vu that Louis’ experiencing—he’s seen this scary similar picture with his siblings and his mother many a times.

Harry’s glower burns through him next. “Why are you laughing? He could’ve hurt his hands, Lou, or gotten his knuckles infected. He’s only—“

“Older than you?” Louis reminds him with an amused grin. “He’s nineteen, baby, a big boy; I think he knows how to nurse a few bruised knuckles.”

“Age doesn’t—he— _no_ ,” Harry huffs finally, pouting his bottom lip dramatically. He pulls his hands away from the running water and dries them off with a kitchen towel before crossing his arms over his chest in a mood. The t-shirt he wears, barely brushing his upper thighs, goes forgotten, ridding up to reveal the pink of his panties. “There should be a little thing of Neosporin under the bathroom sink in the main guest room, Ni,” Harry says to him, “along with some large Band-Aids.”

“Thank you,” Niall mutters lowly, reaching for the power towels.

“And what about you?” Harry asks, eyes scanning every inch of Louis’ form. “Do I need to disinfect any part of you? Run you under some hot water?”

“Nope.” Louis leans off the island and steps in front of Harry, bringing him close and wrapping his arms around his waist. He has to look _up_ at him to meet eye to eye, and Louis is ninety-nine percent sure Harry wasn’t this tall a few months back. How could it be that his eighteen year old boyfriend is taller than him, at twenty-four years of age? “Although, do you remember that bath you gave me when I got back from Russia?”

Harry hums. “It’s a little hazy,” he teases, running soft fingers through the curling wisps at the back of Louis’ neck. “Might need a re-do, you know, just to sharpen up my memory.”

“Oi!” Niall yelps. He snatches the cookie off the counter and points it at the couple threateningly. “You two can’t shag while I’m here.”

 “I think it’s time for you to head to bed,” Louis says pointedly. Niall rolls his eyes and bites a large chunk as he strolls out the door. “I better not find any crumbs in that room, Ireland!”

“Is he really okay?” Harry asks once they’re alone and a TV upstairs turns on.

“His knuckles—“

“I’m not talking about that, Lou,” Harry interrupts purposefully. “Aside from the physical, is he alright?”

Louis leans his forehead against the sharp of Harry’s collarbone, breathing in the calming scent of the younger male. “It was his first time,” he croaks out, his voice hush in the spacey room. “The guy was already half dead, but Ni had to do it eventually.”

He feels Harry’s Adam’s apple bob thickly before he speaks. “He has this—this layer of innocence to him, but it’s so thin, so worn down. Even before tonight, the odds against him were stacked, with everything he went through. Just, now, he’ll never be another normal teenager.”

“I never got that either, Princess,” Louis reminds him. “None of us did, but Niall had a choice and he chose this path.”

The silence is thunderous. With their bodies pressed against one another, Louis feels every breath Harry takes and releases. He knows Harry, knows how his mind must be racing a mile a minute, his usual pile of worry and questions expanded by a tenfold. He wants to reassure his boy that Niall will be perfect, a-okay, that he won’t ever come to regret anything, that he’ll always be safe and sound, but if he can’t believe that himself, much less Harry. Louis knows that Harry realizes what kind of people the Tomlinsons will be for the rest of their lives—bone churning monsters.

 “C’mon, _gattino_.” Louis pulls away and pats Harry’s ass gently. “Let’s get you upstairs.”

The taller of the two beams. “Just to sleep,” Harry stresses with a wicked gleam. “We have a child in the house—no naughty business.”

“Maybe,” Louis replies. He bends his knees before Harry can protest and easily sweeps the boy into his arms, bridal style, before carrying him out of the kitchen. Harry squeals and laughs loudly, covering that cute donkey honk of his with a palm. “I bet you _shag_ like a minx, baby!”

“Let me down! Louis!” Harry yelps when they go up the stairs, his head thrown back with laughter. “What is that godawful accent? Why do you—is that Austin Powers? Are you being Austin Powers, _The Spy Who Shagged Me_?”

Louis kicks the door of the bedroom open and swiftly dumps Harry on the bed, watching through crinkled eyes as his favorite long, lean body bounces on the mattress. He crawls onto the California king, propping himself over Harry’s form. “Actually, my name is Louis Tomlinson. Danger is my middle name.”

“I wouldn’t doubt that,” Harry mutters dryly. His hair is spread out on the bed, his cheeks rosy and flushed, and he looks so, so perfect in that worn shirt and those new, rose-pink panties. He wiggles his eyebrows comically and winks. “Shall we shag now, or shall we shag later?”

Louis snorts. “Your English accent is horrendous. You’re not a very convincing Brit.”

“ _Au contraire_ , baby!” Harry giggles and pushes him to the side, Louis rolling off only to press their bodies close together. “You know we can’t shag with Niall here, especially not when he’s…”

“Can we stop saying shag now? Besides, he won’t be getting much shuteye tonight.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I don’t know, just.” He shrugs, running a thumb over the small birthmark on Harry’s wrist. The pen marks from when he drew a little man with a top hat yesterday are gone. “I know he has that special Irish blood in ‘im, but if he’s anything like the rest of us, he’ll get nightmares. I saw blood for months, I barely slept a wink.”

“But Niall has _you_ ,” Harry states softly. His lashes are more curled than usual, grazing his round cheeks with every blink. “You’re like a brother to him,” he continues. “Zayn and Li are like, you know, his friends, his mates, or whatever. Laddy lads. You are his brother and he looks up to you, low-key worships the ground you walk on.”

Louis cackles. “It’s not as subtle as he thinks it is. He literally laughs at _everything_ I say.”

“Well, I dunno,” Harry blinks slowly. “You _are_ very funny.”

“Eh, that’s true.”

“ _Anyway_ , I think you’ve done a very good job with him, Lou,” Harry replies with sincerity and turned up lips. “I can’t imagine going from a dirty warehouse to Chicago, but he’s done good, don’t you think? Chicago’s quite… big—actually, it’s not, it’s quite small, but you can get lost here, you know?”

“What are you talking about?” Louis squints, watching through narrowed eyes as Harry groans and covers his eyes with an arm. “You do talk some shit, Princess.”

“All I’m saying, ‘s that it has to be hard growing up like that. He doesn’t know who is real parents are or where he’s from—and don’t say Ireland.”

“Speaking of parents,” Louis adds swiftly. He pulls Harry on top of him, so that the boy can rest his head on Louis’ chest and intertwine their legs together. He tries to ignore that fact that his feet barely reach Harry’s tattooed ankles—Louis is five foot nine, and according to Google, that’s the perfect height for the average American male. Harry’s the odd one out here, not him. “How’s your mother?”

Harry blows out a gust of air across Louis’ sensitive, clothed nipple. “A saint, an absolute saint. She’s worried about Gems in New York, and now she won’t stop asking about Thanksgiving. How do I tell her I don’t think I _want_ to go home yet?”

“You don’t want to go home for break?” Louis grabs handful of silky curls and waits with bated breath. He thought Harry was going to jump on the first plane back to Boston, get a little break from him and his chaotic family, and relax around a fire with his own mother and step-father. Now, Louis can only see images of Harry around the fire at the Tomlinson Estate with a mug of hot cocoa, helping Johannah in the kitchen, playing fetch in the backyard with the dogs, painting Daisy's nails before dinner.

“Not really.” Harry clutches the fabric of Louis’ tee in one hand and tilts his head up to lock their eyes. “I love my mom, but I can always go home for Christmas. It’s not that far away. I don’t think—that I’m _ready_ to go home, I guess? Like, my mom knows me—she’s like my best friend—and lying over FaceTime is different than lying to her _face_.”

“Isn’t it kinda the same—“

“It’s not the same thing!”

“Alright, alright,” Louis exclaims. His eyes crinkle as he pokes at the smooth panel of skin where Harry’s dimple forms. “They don’t know about us,” he guesses in low murmur.

“Not yet, but they will,” Harry promises. He whispers, “They don’t know how special you are, but I want to tell ‘em—I wanna tell the world that you’re mine! It’s just…not the right time.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” Louis says.

“I know that, but it doesn’t hurt either,” Harry replies, pursing his lips in thought. “Anne would probably drive up here if she knew about you. There’d be lots of ammo in the trunk,” he giggles.

“I’d probably do the same if I had a daughter,” Louis admits. “I wouldn’t be able to handle it if she dated someone like _me._ ” He cringes at Harry’s sharp intake of breath and immediately recognizes his mistake. He waits quietly as the boy on his chest sneaks a hand under his shirt, squeezing his middle excitedly.

“Wouldn’t that be so cute?” Harry sighs wistfully. “A little girl with your cute, bubble nose, your feathery hair, and your beautiful, round, blue eyes. You could carry her on your shoulders during games at Old Trafford. Imagine all the dresses Lottie would buy her! She would be so spoiled by the whole fam—“

“Harry, stop,” Louis demands. His tone is stern, his eyes sharp. Harry stills on top of him. He doesn’t know how many times they’re going to have the same, redundant conversation—when will his boyfriend understand? “If that’s something you need in the future—you’re not going to get that from me.”

Harry sits up with haste, an incredulous look grazing his features. “Are you being serious? You don’t want kids? _Never_?”

“Never,” he affirms. Harry slumps, his shoulders hunching over as he nods. “I’m sorry, but please just let it go.”

Harry shoots up at that and gawks at him. “How can you ask me to let this go? Babies, Lou, babies! Okay, sure, I’m only eighteen, but I’ll be done with college in a few years and—“

“Not with me,” Louis repeats with an edge in his character. He watches as Harry’s thick brows crease in disbelief and his cerise lips open and close around unsaid words, until the boy finally shuts his eyes and falls back on the mattress with a soft bounce. Louis leaves it at that, hopes Harry will finally comprehend the weight behind his words, and shuffles off the bed. “I’m going to check on Niall.”

“Okay, yeah. I’ll be here,” Harry answers. Before Louis can shut the door, he hears the younger boy mumble, “I’m not getting that from you, anyway.”

The TV in the guest room is still on, a _Friends_ rerun playing in the dark room. Niall’s sprawled across the commodious bed in nothing but loose boxers and drying drool on his cheek, the sheets rumpled around his form. He’s quiet, snoring lightly, and as Louis goes to shut the door, Niall jolts violently, his body twisting uncomfortably, but he doesn’t wake. Louis shuts the door behind him softly and slides down the hallway wall to the bottom slowly, sighing and closing his eyes.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed, but then there’s the sound of feet padding softly against the hardwood floor, and moments later a body is sliding down next to him, their shoulders brushing. There’s a fleece blanket in their lap now, covering his cold toes.

“I thought when you didn’t come back—are you mad?” Harry asks with worry. “’Cause of the baby thing? I won’t lie and say I understand, but being with you is all I want, okay? I want you more than anything.” The boy scoots his butt down on the floor until he can rest his head comfortably on Louis’ shoulder.

“Are you sure?” Louis doesn’t believe him. How can he when Harry Styles lights up when diaper commercials come on the plasma?

Harry hesitates, before nodding, shaking their bodies slightly. “The surest. Now, what are you doing on the floor? If you’re not mad, come back to bed.”

Louis leans until his head is slightly on top of Harry’s—he’s seen that cutesy move in those rom-com Lottie watches, and it always looks slightly cute and very uncomfortable. He hopes it looks cute now, because his neck is straining. “Just in case he wakes up; I want to be here.”

“Oh, okay,” Harry says gently, snuggling closer.

“You can go back to sleep, Princess.” Louis pulls always slightly and presses a kiss to those silky curls. “You’re gonna hurt your back like this.”

Harry refuses and they stay on the hard, heated floor with their backs against the wall. Their limbs are entangled, and Louis watches silently as the teenager in his arms droops and falls to sleep within minutes. There’s light coming through the expansive large window across from them, the sun starting to peek over the lake in shades of deep oranges and vibrant pinks, when an earsplitting scream breaks the soft illusion.

“What the fuck?” Startled, Harry pulls away from Louis, detangling himself quickly, looking around with anxious, wide eyes and sleep-red lips. He starts to shift around, pulling the fleece off his legs, and goes to stand, but Louis pulls him back down. “Lou, we’ve got to check—“

“No,” Louis disagrees. He pulls Harry to him, holding him close as another harsh cry echoes through the penthouse. He winces but doesn’t relent. “We can’t go in there. He has to do this on his own and work through it, otherwise it’ll never stop.”

“What?” Harry pushes him away, gawking in incredulity. “We have to go in there! We have to help him, he—he could be hurt!”

“No,” he repeats firmly. He holds his arms open and Harry crawls into them with a frown and glassy eyes. “He’s having a nightmare, a terror. It’ll get easier for him, okay? The first night is always the worst.”

Harry’s astonished at how Niall doesn’t wake, even with his loud, piercing screams filling the room as the sun does, too, but Louis understands it. He’s been there before; he’s been through the emotional pain of the first kill, the first true, hell-worthy sin, and now it’s Niall’s turn. Harry trembles with every cry, like he absorbs the pain Niall’s holding, but he refuses to leave and head back to bed, opts for staring blankly at the cold lake before them.

Louis knows he can’t allow Harry to go into the room with the hurting teenager—what good would coddling him be? His own parents went through the same thing: after Louis’ first time, he would find them sitting outside his own room back at the Tomlinson Estate, Marcos holding a teary-eyed Johannah, but back then Louis didn’t understand why they wouldn’t go back to their own bed, why they would choose to stay up all night just to hear him scream.

He understands them now. With every shout and cry and agonized scream Niall makes, Louis wants to kick the door down and shake him until he wakes from the night terror. He wants to help him and let Harry mollycoddle him, but it wouldn’t do anyone any good.

“He hasn’t made a single sound in the past hour,” Harry croaks with the realization. His voice is thick and wet and Louis doesn’t have to look at him to know there is dry trails of dampness on his cheeks. “D’you think it’s over?”

“Yeah, c’mon, baby.” He stands swiftly and reaches out a hand, which Harry immediately takes, standing. Louis raps twice on the door before pushing it open. Niall is sprawled across the unmade bed like a starfish, blank eyes staring up at the ceiling. The sheets are all crumpled around him, the midnight blue duvet shrugged off the foot of the bed to the floor. “Morning kid,” he greets.

“Mornin’,” Niall grumbles in return.

“How’d you sleep?”

Niall shrugs. “Alright, I guess. ‘M a bit tired, but can’t go back to sleep.” He sits up and runs fingers through his shaggy, blond strand, before stretching his arms over his head, back cracking loud enough to make Louis cringe. “I think I want to go home now.”

“How about some breakfast first?” Harry speaks up, poking his head into the room. He rests his chin on Louis’ bony shoulder and winks playfully. “Waffles, maybe? I could cook up a full English, just the way you like it. I won’t forget the baked beans this time.”

Niall cracks a tentative smile at that. “Raincheck, H?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Louis says. “Get dressed and I’ll drive you back to the estate.”

They drop Harry off at his dorm with a parting, sweet kiss from Louis and a promise to text from Niall, before they’re on their way back to the Tomlinson grounds. The drive is short as they speed out of the city and into the suburbs; the teenager messing around on his beloved iPhone, sometimes letting out a giggle when Louis fucks up a rap during Drake’s new album. Personally, Louis thinks he murdered each verse and that Liam would be proud, but making Niall laugh is worth it, even if his new brother threatens to tell Zayn how badly he messed up during _Legend._

He decides to stay at the estate, looking for anything to waste a few hours on. He fights the temptation to text Harry, not allowing himself to distract his boy form lectures. Instead, he flops onto his old bed, sighing. His thoughts take him directly to Harry—like always—but he can’t help but think back to the phone call he received from his inside man at the Chicago PD.

He loves everything about Harry, is thankful for him, but the fact that Anne Twist is a police officer is still a thorn lodged in his side. It would be as simple as a short phone call from Jacen Wilds to Boston for everything to go up in smoke. Louis trusts Harry, of course he does, but he also knows what a big impact and impression Anne makes—she’s his mother, for God’s sake, and they have a healthy relationship. Louis wasn’t lying earlier—he would never allow his own daughter or son to date someone like him.

On the other hand, he also knows that Wilds would never be stupid enough to make a call out to the Northeast, leaving them to handle the family situation on their own terms. If Anne Twist is anything like Harry makes her out to be—a determined, albeit stubborn, strong woman—there is no doubt in Louis’ mind that she would come for her son, immediately destroying any chance Wilds ever had of getting any sort of information out of Harry. Without Harry, Jacen Wilds and the department wouldn’t have any case against—

“Lou?”

Louis snaps his head towards the door at the sudden voice, where Niall is leaning against the frame with curious eyes. “Uh, hi.”

“Sorry, I knocked but you didn’t answers,” Niall explains. “I thought you went home, but the Range Rover is in the driveway so,” he blabbers, shifting on his socked feet. “Ma just wanted me to tell you we’re going out to dinner in an hour. Some place called Everest?”

“French? Majority rules.” He makes a face, but nods. He grabs his phone from the bedside table, lighting it up, only to be surprised at the late hour. His lock screen is filled with missed messages from his family. How deep in thought was he that he didn’t hear Harry call or Niall knock? He hops from the bed, grabbing his wallet, and taking a long look at the young adult in his doorway, who won’t meet his eyes anymore. “You okay?”

“Just dandy.” Niall shrugs and moves his gaze to the bay window at the front of the room. “Hungry, I guess.”

“You’re a shit liar.”

“Was I very loud last night? I tried to be quiet.”

“That only makes it worse,” Louis admits. Niall shrugs again, refusing to meet his eyes. “You shouldn’t feel ashamed—“

“I feel soft,” Niall snaps. When he finally raises his gaze, Louis’ taken a back. His eyes are the color of the snowy glaciers in Argentina, but the troubling  ache in them is different, is new. “I know you told me that it’s normal, but I-I don’t like feeling so weak, so… soft. I always felt like that with—in Russia, and I don’t want to be that anymore. I want to be strong, like you.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being soft, Ni,” Louis answers quietly. The room feels much loftier around them, and he can taste the confusion and shock that rolls off Niall like waves, salty on his tongue. “If I’m honest, I’m surprised that you’re so soft-hearted; you’ve been treated like shit all your life, and yet you’re not as hard as a stone. I’m jealous.”

“Jealous?” Niall repeats, scoffing. “Why would you ever be jealous of me?”

“Just because you’re soft doesn’t mean you’re not just as strong. You’re one of the strongest I have ever met.”

“Harry was right,” Niall says softly. “You _can_ get sappy,” he laughs, dodging Louis’ punch. He quiets down then, eyes locked on his covered knuckles where they grip the door handle. “Do you mean it?” He wonders gently.

Louis rolls his eyes playfully. “Yes, and don’t make me say it again. Someone else might believe Harry’s slanderous lies.” They shuffle out of the room and into the hallway, making their way down the stairs. “Just let it out, okay? Don’t be ashamed and it’ll get easier,” he reminds the new Tomlinson boy.

“D’you think I could stay at your place again?” Niall questions shyly, taking two steps at a time. “I just, maybe it would, I dunno—“

Louis interrupts with an annoyed eye roll and agrees, shoving the blond out of the way when they step on the main floor. He’s been way too nice today, Louis thinks, cringing. Since when does he care about someone other than himself? This is clearly all Harry's fault.

He calls Harry once he’s back on the road, informing his boyfriend about their dinner plans. Harry curses him over the phone, mumbling about having nothing to wear and greasy hair, and Louis can’t help but laugh. It’s still amusing how nervous the eighteen year old feels around Johannah, despite being welcomed into the family on multiple occasions. He knows it has nothing to do with what the Tomlinsons do or how much power Johannah has, but simply because they’re his _family_ and Harry’s just as soft-hearted and sweet as Niall.

He’s in front of the familiar college residence far too soon and opts to wait in the car. God knows that if he were to go up to Harry’s room, they might not make it out in time for dinner. James Bay comes through the speakers again, a stark contrast to the rap that was filling the small space before.

_“It’s setting off. It’s time to go, the engine’s running. My mind is lost; we always knew this day was coming… and now it’s more frightening than it’ll ever be. We grow apart, I watch you on the red horizon. Your lion's heart will protect you under stormy skies…And I will always be listening for your laughter and your tears.”_

It’s a gentle tap on the passenger window that startles him, eyes blinking rapidly to readjust to the dark light. Harry’s waving at him on the other side, a wide beam covering half his face, and once again Louis’ shocked at how lost in his thoughts he got. He’s quick to unlock the door and soon enough Harry is shuffling in, leaning over the console to kiss him on the mouth with cold lips and warm eyes.

“ _Brrr_! It’s cold out there,” Harry says in lieu of a greeting. He holds gloved hands in front of the vents and sends him a perplexed look. “Are you tired, Lou? I thought you were asleep, I’ve been knocking for a bit.”

“No, no, sorry, Princess.” Louis shakes his head, just as confused as his boyfriend. He only closed his eyes for a second or two, but he definitely didn’t fall asleep, focused on the music. He pulls out of the campus, driving steadily towards the Chicago Stock Exchange with his love’s hand in his, but the chorus from the song that was playing earlier won’t leave his mind, playing over and over like a broken record.

_We live through scars this time, but I've made up my mind; we can't leave us behind anymore. We'll have to hurt for now, but next time, there's no doubt, ‘cause I can't go without you._

“I thought we were going to have dinner with your family, not exchange trading funds.” Harry states with raised brows, staring up at the long, rectangular building as they cross the street.

“We’re going to the top floor— _Everest_ has some of the best views of the city, and possibly the best risotto I’ve ever tasted,” Louis replies. “Just don’t tell Zayn that. Chef Joho has never spilled his secret ingredient on the rice and Z won’t ever forgive him for it.”

On the fortieth floor, the elevator doors slide open to reveal a busy floor. The air is filled with delicious French cuisine and happy chatter, the walls beige and the windows long and wide exposing the cold city below. The skyscrapers are all lit up, shimmering against a dark backdrop, and the moment they step out of the elevator, there’s a sharply dressed waiter by their side. They’re taken towards the back, where the rest of the family is already waiting, menus opened in front of them.

“Harry!” Lottie exclaims with a smile, pushing out of her seat and brushing past Louis to give the university student a hug. “I haven’t seen you in days! We should do lunch.”

“It’s nice to see you, too, Lots,” Louis remarks.

Lottie glares at him over Harry’s shoulder before pulling away. “Actually, I feel like I see too much of you these days. Let’s not.”

“Be nice,” Harry chides them both. He walks around them to greet the others, pulling Louis along with him, and Lottie sticks her tongue out at Louis childishly. They sit soon after, looking over their menus, everyone talking over each other loudly, discussing everything but business.

“French food never fills me up,” Liam complains. He has an arm casually thrown over Zayn’s chair as he pouts down at the menu, all written in romantic language. “That’s probably why they’re all so slim; all the portions are tiny! It’s like everything is finger food.”

“French is one of the best in the world!” Lottie declares stubbornly. “When Fizz and I went to Lyon, we had the best Pissaladiere, which is this pizza with—“

“Pizza is Italian!” Liam argues, eyebrows thick and crinkled, stumped. “Hm,” he mumbles, tapping his bottom lip with a finger in mock concentration, looking down at his menu. “Would i rather have _Pomme Mousseline_ , whatever that is, or the hefty, Italian lasagna Nonna taught Zaynie to make? Let me think…”

“Fucking idiot,” Lottie groans. “ _Pomme Mousseline_ is literally mashed potatoes. Did you even pass French in school?”

“I took Italian,” Liam grumbles quietly. “I thought it would be an easy A.”

The discussion between the two dies out when the appetizers are brought out, everyone quickly digging in, Harry not-so-slyly taking sips from Louis’ bourgogne blanc. The conversation flows easily throughout the meal and Louis feels himself relaxing with the time, Harry’s hand firm and reassuring on his thigh. It’s only an hour later, when he notices Johannah shifting, her pose solid and her steel blue eyes narrowed carefully at something over his shoulder.

“Ma? Is something wrong?”

Johannah purses her lips and nods. “It doesn’t have to be.”

Always curious, Louis twists around in his chair; eyes darting around the large room until they land on the target, his appetite quickly leaves him. “Well, fuck.”

“Watch your mouth,” she scolds. “Will you please turn around; you’re behaving like a child, Louis!”

“Was goin’ on?” Niall wonders around a large mouthful of lobster. His gaze shifting between Johannah and Louis in question.

“Alexei Lucas and his family are here,” Louis hisses. He lets his fork drop onto the fine china, causing Harry to start besides him. He squeezes his boy’s thigh apologetically, Harry grabbing his fingers, a dimple settling on his cheek as he returns a sheepish smile.

Liam shifts in his seat, straightening his back and lifting his shoulders to take a peek at the family across the room. “They’re all here,” he notes. “Oh—wait, no, except Gail. That’s too bad… Ow! Zayn, what the hell?”

“Gail?” Lottie perks up. Like her brothers, she twists in her seat to take a good look at their rival family, if one could even call them _rivals_. Her posture falls when she doesn’t see the blonde’s pretty face anywhere near her family. “That _is_ too bad.”

“Lottie!” Fizzy scowls, rolling her eyes and pushing her salmon around. “You can’t have a thing for the enemy.”

“I don’t have a _thing_ ,” Lottie refutes. “I just—I like her—makeup. I like her makeup, yeah, her cream contour is very impressive.”

“Well,” Harry begins, pausing to take a sip of his iced water. “At least I don’t have to worry about Chloe kidnapping me in public, do I?”

At that, Louis’ grip tightens on Harry’s firm thigh. “You know I won’t let anything happen to you right? You don’t have to worry—you’re safe with me.”

“I know,” Harry replies softly. His lips quirk for half a second—too short of a time for Louis’ liking—before he turns back to his dinner.

“Please, let’s all return to our dinner,” Dan speaks up. He has an arm around Johannah’s chair as he looks around the large, round table. “The last thing we need is an altercation—your mother already has a lot on her plate, so why don’t we just pretend we never saw the Lucases in the first place, okay?”

They all go back to their gourmet dinner, but Louis’ back is rigid, his bones stiff and on edge. He feels the stab of several glares on his spine, but fights the urge to look back. The last thing they need is an altercation in such a public place. An hour passes by slowly, conversations low and private as they all work on their dessert. He’s sharing a plate of raspberry brûlée with Harry when he cranes his neck to look back, only to meet Stan Lucas’ steel, blue eyes and wicked leer.

“Fuck!” Louis spins back around, lips pressed together in frustration.

“Stan is whispering something to Ian,” Lottie announces. She has clear view through Harry and Louis’ shoulder, and she watches with stony, Tomlinson-blue eyes as their foes communicate tables away. “It’s like a damn game of Chinese whispers: Ian is speaking to Alexei now and—and,” Lottie stops abruptly, lowering her eyes.

“Not a word, any of you,” Johannah orders, keeping a steady gaze on Louis. “Not a word.”

The family waits silently as the Lucases maneuver around tables and chairs, moving around chatty families and friends with ease. Louis is tense with his back to the Greek family. He watches the way Lottie composes herself, instead, her blue eyes moving as the Greeks do. He can’t handle having his back to the enemy, so with Harry’s hand still in his, he twists his whole body, legs hanging from the side of the chair.

“Johannah!” Alexei Lucas greets, his voice carrying over the chatter of the spacious room. “What a wonderful surprise.”

Johannah stands, pushing her chair back. “Alexei, it’s always a pleasure.”

“It’s been far too long, wouldn’t you agree? When was the last time we all had dinner?”

“I’m a busy woman,” Johannah replies. “Surely you can understand. I haven’t had the time to sit down and chat.”

“I understand, of course.” Alexei’s unblinking, muddy gray eyes scan the table until they reach Niall, curiosity loud. “And who is this young fellow?”

“We’ve adopted again,” Johannah states simply. “This is Niall, my son.”

Niall hesitates, chancing a look Louis’ way. Louis just nods and Niall stands with assurance, reaching out to shake Alexei papery hand. “It’s nice t’meet you, sir.”

“They’re all so well trained, aren’t they?” The man chuckles, eyeing Niall with attentiveness. “An Irish boy, that’s quite something.” That beady gawk turns and lands on Harry, where he’s pressed against Louis’ chest. Louis stiffens and grips Harry’s waist possessively. “And this must be _Harry_.”

“Uh, yes, sir, that’s me.” Harry makes a move to stand, but Louis’ grip tightens, holding him down.

“It’s quite the honor, meeting the enchanting Harry Styles.” Alexei tilts his head, examining Harry. “The boy who has everyone in frenzy, isn’t that correct?”

“Uh—“

“Is there anything else we can help you with, Alexei?” Johannah interrupts. She has Dan by her side, her expression cool like ice. “I don’t mean to hurry you,” she says, “but we have family matters pending.”

“No, no, I understand.” The Greek leader waves her off, but doesn’t release his hawk-like gaze on Harry. “I just wanted to congratulate Louis, here, on such a captivating find like Harry. He’s just as stunning as everyone said.”

“I know,” Louis quips, hands never leaving his boy’s warm body.

“Oh!” Alexei’s eyes widen. “I almost forgot about Chloe, here.” The Greek heiress snorts and pushes past her brothers to stand next to her father, eyes narrowed in a heavily-lined glare, arms crossed over her chest. “Chloe has a few things she’d like to say.”

“Ah, yes, how could anyone possibly forgot about the unfortunate events that occurred on Halloween Night?” Johannah questions in an unruffled tone, but Louis can hear the fury behind her calm lilt.

“No one got hurt,” Stan mentions, laughing lightly.

That only adds fuel to the fire burning inside of him. He goes to pull back, but Harry grabs his balled up fists quickly, holding them to his body. His attention is driven back to Chloe as she huffs and pouts obnoxiously at her father, twirling her blonde hair around a finger.

“ _Fine_ ,” she grumbles. “I’m _so_ sorry I had my bodyguard try to kidnap you, Harry,” she spits. “I didn’t like, _mean_ to. Besides, like Stan said, no one got hurt, right?”

“You didn’t _mean_ to?” Louis hisses, glowering at the heiress. “What were you going to do to him if your fun, little plan had succeeded?”

Chloe stutters, shooting panicked glances at her father. “Um, like I said, I’m sorry, Louis.”

“I’m not sorry I killed that motherfucker! I should’ve hung him by his feet and let him bleed to death like the pig that he was,” Louis snarls. Harry wraps Louis’ arms tighter around his body, his back pressed tightly against the elder’s back.

“You obviously can’t take a joke, Lou,” Chloe retorts.

“A _joke_?” He repeats with disbelief, voice raising octaves. “You could’ve hurt him! I blinked and he was gone, your bodyguard—“

“It sounds to me like it was your fault,” Ian interjects surprisingly with a thick, quirked brow. “Are you feeling guilty, Louis? Is this what this is all about, then? Your boy got taken right underneath that nose of yours.”

“Oi! Fuck off,” Zayn exclaims with a glare.

“Now he speaks,” Lottie murmurs, glowering at the quieter Lucas boy.

“That’s enough of that,” Alexei mumbles, looking pleased with the interaction.

“Thank you for apologizing.”

Louis snaps his head back to Harry, getting only a view of the back of his boyfriend’s curly head. “What? What the hell are you thanking her for?”

Harry leans back casually, resting his back against Louis’ chest, and titling his head upwards to meet Louis’ puzzled eyes. “She said it was just a joke, Lou,” the boy affirms. He has a look in his eyes that Louis recognizes, a look that he’s seen more than once. _Let it go_. “It was a joke, that’s all.”

There’s a fire in the pit of Louis’ stomach, one that has been lit since Halloween night, that burns him from the inside whenever he thinks back. He knows Harry is right, that he shouldn’t start anything over events that belong in the past, but the impulse is there, biting and taunting him. How can he just let this go? How does he remain seated and not pounce like the predator he normally is? His fingers loosen from their tight holding, promptly intertwining with Harry’s long, pale, digits, and his jaw unclenches slowly. “Okay,” he agrees lowly, lips brushing against his boy’s diamond-studded ear.

“ _Aw_ , isn’t that just the cutest?” Stan laughs a shrill, dry sound. He looks almost hysterical, the way his round eyes are glaring at both Louis and Harry, his soft, fair skin flushed despite the cool temperature of the lofty dining area. “I guess Chloe was right,” he explains. “Louis Tomlinson finally found the one worth it all. Never thought I’d see that day. How _soft_ are you now, huh, Lou?”

“Soft?” Louis repeats with an amused tease of a smile. “ _You_ should know I’ve always been everything but soft.” He feels the heavy weight of Niall’s eyes on his skin. It’s too late for that now. Niall will understand.

“This has been just lovely,” Johannah intrudes before Stan can answer smartly. She grasps her hands together and pretends like she can’t see the rest of the diners staring anything but subtlety at the two of the most powerful families in the country. “It was nice to see you again, Alexei, and your family as well.”

“What? We’re done here?” Stan questions loudly, clicking his tongue in disapproval. Louis feels his stomach rumble with repulsion at Stan’s leer—how could he have actually touched this man once? The days when they hooked up feel like light years away, but the jealously is rich in Stan’s grated words. “We still haven’t talked about Harry’s sweet little ass. Come on,” the Greek turns to wink at his sister, “we all saw that perky little thing when they walked in.”

“What the _fuck_ did you say?” He’s out of his chair in a flash, faster than a simple blink of the eyes, and slamming Stan Lucas against the wall with force. Their faces are so close that their noses almost touch, and the room is so quiet, silent as death, that when he cocks his gun, it’s like the colorful night of Independence Day. The barrel of the glock is pressed tight against Stan’s side, hidden from plain sight, but the man still has the audacity of laugh in Louis’ face, breath hot and bitter.

“You’ve always struggled with your temper,” Stan pants around a sleazy smirk. “Everyone’s watching, Lou,” he taunts. “You wouldn’t dare pull something in front of all these patrons, these families enjoying their delicious French gourmet, would you?”

“I don’t give a fuck about these patrons and their fucking dinner!” He pushes the gun harder against the soft flesh, snorting once he feels Stan attempting to fruitlessly tighten his abdomen. “You think I won’t kill you? You think I give two shits about who might see your blood splattered on these walls?”

Stan breaks their eye contact, tipping his head to gaze at something behind Louis’ shoulder. “Would you dare do that in front of your sweet Harry? I can’t imagine what that would do to him, to your image. Tainted,” he hisses.

“I’ve killed in front of Harry once, and I have no qualms about doing it again.” Louis leans down and puts his mouth by Stan’s ear so that not one word is missed or misconstrued, pushing the gun against the man’s ribs. “Don’t look at Harry. If you so much as _look_ at Harry one more time, I will wrap my hands around your meaty, fat neck until your body starts turning purple and your eyes start to pop out of your face. The last thing you’ll see as you’re struggling for air, your brain starting to asphyxiate from the lack of blood, is my pretty face.”

“Pretty?” Stan chuckles, rolling his eyes, but they don’t look back once. “You’ve always been one for the dramatics—there’s no need for violence.” Stan bites his bottom lip in attempt to look coy, before saying, “I just want to have a little fun with Harry. Why should you always get the best ass? I’d love to bounce him on my—“

Louis knocks him against the hard surface again, Stan yelping as the back of his head bangs loudly against the fancy wallpaper. He pushes his arm against Stan’s bare throat, holding the man’s squirming body up as Stan grasps at air, eyes bulging like Louis promised. He has the right mind to blow a bullet or two through flesh and bones, rage thickening like the blood he wishes to draw from the panicking man before him. He has a finger on the trigger, oblivious to the patrons and staff of the restaurant being rushed out of the dining room behind him. It’s Harry’s soft gasp that makes his movements stutter.

There’s a pistol being cocked besides him, and when he turns, Ian is staring him down, silent and cold like ice pellets, pointing the weapon at him. There’s a flurry of movement and Louis’ brothers are on alert, their weapons out and cocked, prepared. They all have their arms stretched out, barrels turned at Ian, whose stance doesn’t waver.

Louis turns his attention to Stanley, who’s struggling against the wall, eyes filled with fright. He’s surprised he hasn’t killed him, but he knows it’s because of Harry. He owes his boy more than this. Louis dislodges his arm from his former hookup’s neck, the man falling to his knees, gasping for air manically. With Stan on the floor, Louis stands in front of him and uses his gun to tilt the man’s chin up to meet his gaze.

“If you ever look at him again, I will kill you. If you ever talk to him, in any shape or form, I will kill you. If you’re in the same place—be it a grocery store, a club, or the fucking street—you will turn the other way and leave, or I will fucking _kill_ you.” Louis presses the tip of his glock between Stan’s wide eyes. “Do you understand?”

“Y-yes.”

“Okay, Louis, that’s enough.” Johannah’s voice rings out loud and commanding. “Don’t forget your sisters are present and they don’t need to see this.”

Louis backs up at the mention of the twins and the older two, but doesn’t put his arm down, gun trained on Stan in case he makes a sudden move. To his surprise, it’s Alexei Lucas who shuffles between the younger Greek and Louis, with a scowl on his furious face, and helps Stan to his unstable feet.

“Was that really necessary?” The elder scorns, holding his son steady. “You should be ashamed of yourself!”

“Someone has to teach your son to treat others with respect, especially if others don’t belong to him. Any lesser man would’ve shot him after a one suggestive look.”

“Maybe you should practice what you preach,” Alexei proposes. “Respect, you say, yet you’re running your mouth. I’d suggest you remember whom you’re speaking to, Louis. You won’t always have your brothers or your mommy to back you up.”

“I don’t agree with that,” Johanna speaks up again, her tone low and tranquil. “My son will always have his family behind him. I don’t understand why you’re being so lenient—as a family man, of course—if I’m being honest, Alexei. Your daughter had my son’s boyfriend kidnapped as an act of jealousy, and now this with your son and his incredibly rude and suggestive remarks. I’ll do what I have to do ensure my family’s safety.”

Alexei cocks an eyebrow at that. “Is that so? What—are you threatening me, Johannah?”

Johannah has a small linger of a smile on her thin face. “We’ve known each other for several years, Alexei. You, of all people, have firsthand experience with my methods. You know very well that I’m not one for empty promises.”

Alexei is silent for a few, long seconds, before he nods. “Enjoy the rest of your night, Tomlinsons.” Chloe follows her father towards the elevator with a snotty flick of her long hair and so does Ian, silently, on Chloe’s heels. Stan doesn’t move, feet glued to the imported carpet, purple blooming marks lingering on his neck.

Louis whistles in amusement, curved brows rising in taunt. “Your master is leaving. Go on, boy, you wouldn’t want to miss the ride on his back.”

“You fucker!” The anger is back in Stan, clearly over his pathetic fall moments earlier. He steps forward, coming at Louis with his blue eyes narrowed into raging slits. “You need to watch—“

“One more step, and I shoot ya, mate!” Niall bellows, gun cocked and ready to shoot. It’s silent as everyone takes in Niall’s authority, his commanding presence. Even Louis stills, pride surging inside.

“Who the fuck is this kid?” Stan questions, glowering at the hostile blonde.

Johannah sighs loudly from her spot at the table. “Are we going to be here all night? Would you three like to go outside and end this bullshit like men? Stan, what do you think? You want to fight this out, or would you prefer to have a few more years of life? Either way, I don’t care.”

Stan hesitates, eye twitching in distress. His fingers inch towards the weapon he has hidden in his waist, but reconsiders it, choosing to join his family on the awaiting elevator, leering as the doors shut. Louis stands still, watching with hawk-like eyes as the numbers on top of the elevator start decreasing. There’s a warm hand on his bicep and he’s being twirled around, pushed against a firm chest.

“Lou?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you alright?” Harry wonders quietly. His curls tickle Louis’ nose, sweet like vanilla and soft like satin. He rubs big, smooth palms over his back soothingly, erasing the tension knots by his spine.  “You looked—you were so mad, I was so worried.”

Louis pulls back, face crinkling, and Harry traces the sharp curve of his cheekbone. “Why? _Gattino_ , I promised I was going to take care of you. Don’t you believe me?”

Harry blinks, stammering. “Babe—of course I believe you! I was worried about _you_ , not me. You let him get to you,” he explains. “I didn’t want you to get in trouble—everyone was watching! All those people—“

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Louis reassures him. “You’re okay and so is the family. That’s all that matters.”

“ _You_ matter,” Harry pressures. “You always think of others—and that’s so beautiful and selfless, it really is, Lou—but you need to take care of yourself. He got a reaction out of you, a very powerful one. That could’ve ended completely different.”

Louis nods, trying to comprehend the depth underneath his boy’s words. He carefully slots the glock back in its holster and wraps his arms around Harry. “You’re alright? Those things he said—God, I want to kill him!”

“You can’t.” Harry tightens his grip, fingers squeezing the firm skin around Louis’ hips. “You can’t go off the rails like that every time some asshole makes a rude remark.”

“Fuck that!” He exclaims, pulling apart aggressively. “Who the fuck does he think he is? He is _no one_ to even speak to you in the first place. He had no right to talk about you like that, the bastard.”

“What, um.” Harry pauses. “What’s your deal with him, with Stan?”

“My deal?”

“Liam said—“

“Liam lies. Liam’s a liar. Every time his big mouth moves—”

“ _Louis_.”

“Fine,” Louis says, giving in. “We’ve known each other since we were kids. He’s gay, and you know, well, he was like.” He scratches his scalp, avoiding Harry’s eyes. “We hooked up once or twice, who really knows? It doesn’t matter; it was a very long time ago.”

“You had sex with the very man you just threatened to strangle to death?” Harry gapes, shaking his head in disbelief. He pouts cutely, bottom lip pink and wet and calling out Louis’ name. “You know what? You’re right. I don’t need to know.”

“Are you jealous?” Louis teases, grabbing Harry’s behind playfully.

“No!” Harry’s cheeks go rosy. “No, shut up.” He smacks Louis’ hands away and looks back to the table, a bright, glossy grin on his feminine features.

Louis leads them back to the table, where things are still tense. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Lottie frowns. “Does this mean I have to unfollow Gail Lucas on all social media?”

Louis is surprised by the cackle that leaves his mouth—Lottie didn’t say anything particularly funny, she never does, actually. But without his permission, more busy, loud laughs escape from him, taking everyone, including him, by surprise. It’s all so _bizarre_. This is his life, wild and assuming, and he absolutely _loves_ it. He has a good boy by his side and his family is nuts and dangerous in some ways, but he fits right in.

Harry leans closer in alarm, squinting at him in suspicion. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he hiccups. He takes Harry’s hand and smiles. “I’m good.”

“Family dinners are always fun,” Fizzy mutters, snapping her eyes back to the iPhone she doesn’t bother hiding in her hands.

“ _Il sangue non e acqua_.” Zayn raises his goblet towards the ceiling. Everyone follows suit, raising their drinks, be it water, Coke, or luxurious, vintage wine from southwest France. “To family.”

“To family,” the Tomlinsons repeat in union. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on twitter: inhalethedark and tumblr: inhalethepuredark
> 
> Until next time


	22. Flora and Foes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter that I have to **repost** , from now on they're all new chapters. :)
> 
> I have a WKFWDF [Spotify playlist here](https://open.spotify.com/user/inhalethepuredark/playlist/2g6aC9xYleLvOIZ4VhF1g7) if you're interested. Feel free to leave song suggestions. I'm currently listening to the ones you guys left me on the last chapter!
> 
>    
>  **Disclaimer: Not mine! Simply rewrote and adapted it. All rights belong to Johnnyboy7 on fanfiction.net. If you're confused about this, please check out my notes in Chapter One. I also don't own One Direction.**

* * *

_"The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death." - 1 Corinthians 15:26_

 

Louis scowls out the small window, glaring at the snowflakes as they fall rapidly onto the snow-covered tarmac. With a heavy sigh he lets his head loll to the side, gently thumping against the cold, oval glass. He groans, pressing his lips tightly in annoyance, when he gets a glance at the time on the illuminated screen of Liam’s sleek iPad. New York City’s winters are almost as bad as the snowfalls of Chicago; the only difference is that Louis has always been a car ride away from his penthouse, and now he’s stuck inside a damn jet, 790 miles from home over a few inches of snow.

“This is fucking stupid,” he mutters. He watches men in fluorescent orange vests run around with large machinery, struggling to clear the runways as the snow keeps falling with a vengeance. “We should’ve been home by now! They’re just pushing the snow around like idiots, as if it’s the first time they’ve ever seen a god damn snowflake!”

“They’re clearing the snow as fast as they can, Louis, settle down.” Johannah Tomlinson rolls her eyes and wraps her cashmere sweater tighter around herself, typing away on her laptop.

“They should do it faster, then,” Louis replies impatiently. He taps his fingers against his armrest and glowers. “That’s their job, and they’re not even going about it correctly. That’s their fucking job, fucking losers.”

“Alright, you know what?” Johannah snaps her laptop shut and sets it on the small table besides her. She settles her eyes evenly on Louis’ heated face, her tone immediately turning briny. “We’re going to sit here until they give us the okay. Stop whining, you sound like a child.”

“I thought the whole entire point of us having our own plane was to avoid situations like this!” Louis cries.

“Louis,” Johannah drawls.  “Do you think I’m _Chione_ or something? I can’t control the weather.”

“Who?” Liam asks, slumped on the opposite chair. His thick eyebrows are knitted together as he tries to keep up with the conversation and whatever game he’s playing on his tablet.

“Chione,” Zayn repeats sleepily. His eyes are still closed as he snuggles further into Liam’s embrace, the elder of the two men propping an arm around Zayn’s thin shoulders. “She was the Greek goddess of snow.”

“Oh.” Liam replies with a toothy beam, smiling down at Zayn, who has fallen back asleep. “Thanks, Z.”

Louis snorts and turns back to his designated window. He normally doesn’t mind New York, but it’s the first time he’s been back since meeting Harry. If someone were to ask why he’s in such a hurry to get back to Chicago, he has no reservations on admitting that he misses his boy. The plan was to fly out to the concrete jungle on Friday morning and return to Harry Saturday night, but that’s gone to shit now due to the weather.  

“We’re never going to get home, are we?”

“Louis, you idiot, just shut up,” Zayn groans, hiding his face in Liam’s arm.

“No,” he snips, lips curling. He doesn’t understand why he’s feeling so tense; why his back is stiff like a rod. There’s an odd feeling bubbling up in the pit of his stomach, sending bursts of anxiety to his throat, making him swallow thickly too often. They’ve been in these situations before—they’ve gotten delayed many times in the past—but for some reason this feels different, for some reason he needs to go home.

Johannah tilts her head at him in question, gazing at him with soft, concerned eyes. “Lou, is everything alright? You know we’ll be in the air once it’s safe.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Louis nods sharply, hoping to come off as reassuring as he can, but with the narrowed look his mother sends him, he knows she doesn’t buy it. The burning twinge inside him only magnifies as the hours pass. Something back home needs him, but what? Or more so, who?

He trusts that Bates is keeping an eye on Harry; that even though his boyfriend may still be uncomfortable with the idea of a bodyguard, Bates is doing what he’s being paid to do; all while keeping a safe distance. There’s a large, irrational part of Louis that wants to govern everything; a twitch in his fingers that he can’t stop when it comes to the need of control.  There’s a line he doesn’t want to cross—a line that quickly takes him from caring boyfriend to overprotective parental figure, or warden, even. 

He despises even the idea of backing away from Harry and giving the boy his much needed space, especially when there are threats looming around the corners. He doesn’t breathe down Harry’s neck; he smiles when the long-legged boy mentions lunch with Jade or study groups at the library or open mic night at random bars; he absolutely does not do background checks on his classmates or anything as creepy. His lack of knowledge when it comes to boyfriend-y things is obvious when it comes to Harry’s safety—how does he keep Harry safe as a _boyfriend_ and not let the _Il Principe_ part of him blur in? How does he give Harry some sort of regularity?

There’s something Louis’ been pondering heavily about in the last few days. It’d keep Harry safe and let his own mind rest for a few hours a day, but—but would Harry say yes? Would Louis himself be able to handle it? What if Harry thinks it’s too soon? They _have_ only been dating for a few months and moving in together is a big step, but everything in their relationship feels so _settled_ in an odd, comforting way, like it’s bound to happen eventually. Their relationship isn’t like any other out there, so why should Louis treat it like it’s run-of-the-mill?

He checks his silent phone again and sighs. Louis takes another sip of his now chilled tea, before snugging back into the leather chair. He closes his eyes and focuses on the rumbling of the wind outside, blocking out Liam’s loud laughter and Zayn’s soft mumbles and his mother’s humming. He thinks about how tiring this trip has been with such a large weapons shipment going to the UK, how New York has chilled his bones, and how much he has missed Harry, even in a short forty-eight hours.

A sharp cackle startles him awake sometime later. He blinks the tiredness from his eyes, opening them only to see Zayn and Liam wrestling on the jet floor. Liam is squirming against the beige carpet, slightly struggling to get out of the strong grip Zayn has on his wrists, and majorly grinning widely like an enamored idiot. The younger of the two is straddling Liam’s waist, pressing their foreheads together, muttering something incoherent. Louis looks away once Zayn leans down, pressing his lips to his lover’s.

“They’re so gross,” Niall comments without looking up from his cellphone. “I wish they’d get a _room_ ,” he says a bit louder, tossing a throw pillow at the mushy couple.

“Hey!” Liam cries out, pillow bouncing off his face. “You hurt me.”

Louis grabs the pillow behind his own head and chucks it at Liam, laughing when Niall follows his lead and flings another cushion at their eldest brother. Liam yelps and Zayn glares at them, weakly flinging them back as he tries to protect the cuddly, grizzly bear of a man beneath him.

“Stop it guys, you’re hurting him!” Zayn orders, patting Liam’s cheek in comfort. He stands and pulls Liam up gently, leading him towards one of the small bedrooms near the back, flipping them the bird behind his back without another word.

Louis rolls his eyes and sends Niall an amused look, before settling back into his chair. His neck instantly misses the soft support of the small pillow, which he spies on the carpet too many feet away. His muscles ache from who knows what and the hot coil in the pit of his stomach is growing tighter. He feels the jet rumble under his chair and is pleased to see that they’re in the air, traveling amongst the clouds. Hopefully, they’ll be home soon enough, and he can find a way to get rid of the knots tensing his form.

“Whoa,” Niall speaks up an hour later, frowning down at his phone. He holds up the sleek phone for Louis to see. “Lottie’s been texting me, she says she’s been trying to get in touch with us for the last half hour.” He holds his cell phone up to his ear with a look of concentration on his rosy face, only to pull it away with annoyance. “There’s hardly any signal up here.”

“I can’t remember the last time Charlotte Tomlinson called _me_ to have a chat.” Louis pats the pockets of his sweats in search for his phone, coming up with no avail. He reaches into the deep pocket of his Adidas hoodie, coming up empty, only to spy a flash of neon green on the carpet by his socked feet. Upon picking it up he observes that his lock screen is filled with iMessages from his sister, all urgent.

“What’s going on?” Liam asks as he comes out from the bedroom with flushed cheeks and a mussed quiff. Zayn follows shortly, his own appearance not far off; wearing a plaid flannel around his waist that Louis is pretty sure Liam was sporting earlier. “Fizz won’t stop texting me, but none of mine are going out.”

“Is there a delete all button?” Zayn questions coolly, dropping on the couch.

“Zaynie,” Liam mumbles, plopping down next him. His round eyes filled with worry. “I think something’s wrong. Where’s Ma?”

_Speak of the devil and she shall appear_ , Louis thinks dryly as his mother reappears from the cockpit. She shuts the door behind her quietly, an eerily calm look plastered on her face, despite the white knuckles clutching tightly around her iPhone. She sits down next to Niall on the long, leather couch and tucks her phone into a Saint Laurent handbag.

“We’ll be landing soon, so it’s best to turn our phones off,” she instructs.

Niall blinks slowly. “But—?”

“But what? Phones off— _now_.”

Something _is_ wrong. It’s the twists and turns of his stomach, the blank stare behind his mother’s ocean-like eyes, the balminess of his palms—Louis feels it. He’s never had such a strange reaction before, but there’s anxiety bubbling up like acid in his bloodstream. His sisters worry sometimes, when they’re gone days at a time, but this—this is something else. Lottie has never blown up his phone like this before, and Lord knows Fizzy’s never been so insistent.

The landing is smooth and quick. His mother’s glossy Maybach awaits them on the tarmac, and they hurry to jump inside and out of the biting fall air. Johannah is quick to restart her phone, tapping her foot against the floor impatiently. They all wait with baited breath as she hits speed dial, ears perked to hear anything from the other line. She’s silent as she hangs up, taking a shaky breath, before turning to the driver.

“We need to leave right now. Go as fast as you can.”

Niall leans forward in his seat, worry sketched in his pale features. “Ma? What’s going on?”

“There’s been an accident,” Johannah replies from the front seat. “It’s going to be okay, Niall, don’t worry.”

“An accident?” Liam fears from the third row of seats. “What happened—is it the girls? The twins?”

“No,” she answers quickly. “The girls—the girls are all fine.”

“Did Dan get hurt?” Niall wonders.

“ _No_ ,” Johannah barks. She turns back in her seat at that, eyes narrowed as the skyscrapers pass them by, the city moving slowly with the early hour.

He never gets scared anymore, or at least hasn’t felt such fright since he was a young boy, but he feels it now. This bizarre feeling inside him, the nameless way his skin prickles, the way his heart races so abnormally—it _is_ fear. His mother’s lack of answers does not help to ebb his anxieties. There’s been an _accident_ and Louis doesn’t understand what that fucking means.

He turns his phone on again with trembling fingers, going straight to his messages. Harry sends him early-morning selfies every day, making silly, sleep-ridden faces, and texts him sweet nothings. Today, however, there’s nothing there. There’s no puffy-eyed, red-lipped Harry, there are no pictures of his boyfriend dressed down in Louis’ oversized, hunter green Adidas hoodie they both seem to love, no _good morning_ ’s. There’s only the _miss you_ and _I love you_ from last night.

They arrive at the Tomlinson Estate sooner than expected, and Daisy and Phoebe are already waiting for them at the end of the long driveway. They stand in their Sunday best, refusing to meet their eyes. Their faces are grave, free from a single stroke of makeup, their lips pressed firmly together.

“Will someone please tell me what the fuck is going on?” Liam spits.

“Who is it?” Louis asks austerely. It’s a purposeless question to an answer he already knows, and for the first time in forever he wants to be wrong. He feels a drop of cold sweat trickle down his neck.

“I—I don’t,” Daisy starts. She fidgets, keeping her gaze set on the hard ground, rubbing her bare hands together. “I’m sorry, Lou,” she whispers.

His feet move before his mind can register anything else, panic seeping in, blinding him. He pushes past his sister and rips open the heavy, oak door. The stairs up to his old bedroom on the third floor feel infinite, like walking on the moon, dread rising with each step taken. When he finally reaches the room, he charges in, nearly tearing the door off its hinges, and the sight brings his heart to a stop.

The room is chill and silent; in fact, the whole estate seems to be still, as if in mourning. The curtains on the large bay window overlooking the grounds are shut tight, making his bedroom dark and solemn. The two eldest Tomlinson girls are sat there; Fizzy on a chair, clutching her legs to her chest, her chin resting on her denim-clad kneecaps, while Lottie sits on the edge of her bed, murmuring to a sickly boy resting on the bed. Louis gapes and does an almost comedic double take—that’s _his_ sickly boy.

Gone is the usual pink glow from Harry’s cheeks, replaced by a waxy, gray color, incredibly pallid from the last time Louis saw him. His curls are damp with sweat, missing their natural glossy shine, matted to his forehead. His boyfriends’ normally bright, sunny eyes are dull and lifeless, sunken in. What shocks him the most are all the tubes and wires Harry’s connected to, the constant, rapid beeping of a heart machine, a clear liquid being pumped into Harry slowly through an IV.

“Ah, Mr. Tomlinson! Great to see you,” Dr. Ferrero greets him as he moves around the room with a glass of water in hand. At the sound of his name, Louis watches Harry’s eyes slowly meet his, his movements like molasses. “Of course, I wish it was under different circumstances,” the family doctor continues, making his way towards Harry.

“What the _fuck_?” Louis roars. He makes his way over the king size bed in haste, gently dropping down next to his boyfriend. His eyes rake over Harry’s frail figure as he goes to take his hand, flinching as the boy’s cold, clammy flesh touches his. “What—what happened to him? What’s wrong with hi—why is he like thi—is he going to be _okay_?” He fires off question after question, but the answers don’t come back just as quickly, much to his frustration.

“‘M fine, Lou,” Harry croaks, he opens his mouth a bit wider to accept a glass of cool water from Lottie, before attempting to smile at Louis. “H-how was New York?”

“ _How was_ _New York_?” Louis repeats incredulously. He turns back to the doctor. “What the hell happened?”

Dr. Ferrero frowns, checking something off on a white clipboard, before slipping the pen back into the pocket of his pristine lab coat. “Right now, Mr. Styles is recovering from mild poisoning. He ingested some deadly toxins. Luckily, it wasn’t too severe. He ought to be back to normal in a few hours.”

“Mild poisoning? Deadly toxins?” Louis repeats in disbelief.

“You sound like a broken record,” Lottie speaks up, rolling her eyes. “You heard Dr. F, he’s going to be fine.”

“You—you didn’t send me flowers this morning, did you?” Harry comments dryly, more so a statement than a question. He frowns, his lips cracking with the movement. “They weren’t from you.”

“No. I sent you primroses yesterday.”

“ _I can’t live without you_ ,” Harry repeats the meaning under his breath. “So they weren’t from you.”

“I told you they weren’t,” Félicité adds. She flips her long hair over her shoulder and sighs. “Why would Louis send Perrie _and_ Sophia flowers? It didn’t make any sense.”

“Perrie?” Louis questions.

“Sophia?” Liam’s voice calls out from under the door frame. He looks troubled and uncomfortable, his face wrinkled with confusion. “Why did you send Sophia flowers?”

“I didn’t! I have no fucking clue what anyone is talking about,” Louis cries with exasperation. “ _What_ flowers?”

He notices the subtle shift in Lottie’s gaze and he follows her eyes until they lead him to the windowsill. There, slightly wilted from the lack of sun filtering the room, a pot of periwinkle colored flowers sit. The flowers shoot straight up from the soil, with a yellow middle, and he doesn’t understand how a dozen or so of these pretty, bulbous flowers could’ve put Harry in such a weak state. He ignores the warnings from his family members until he’s standing on his feet again, inches away from the flowers, and Fizzy is pulling him away.

“You’re not allowed to touch them, Lou,” the sixteen-year-old stresses. “They’re really dangerous.” 

“What the hell are they?”

“Autumn crocus,” Dr. Ferrero answers. “All parts of the flower are toxic. Greek slaves used to eat the flowers, hoping the plant would make them sick, or—if they were lucky enough—kill them. The toxicity levels are so incredibly high; the symptoms of ingestion are very similar to those of arsenic poisoning or cholera.”

“And Harry—how severe is it?” Johannah asks from where she stands beside Liam and Zayn by the door.

The doctor shakes his head. “Harry got lucky. He ingested the poison through the nose, but he was smart enough to wash his hands after handling the flowers. He has stopped vomiting, so now we’re doing our best to handle his dehydration by replacing the fluids he lost.” Dr. Ferrero points the IV in Harry’s arm. “I’ve already sent his blood samples to the laboratory, but I’m certain the results will be pleasing.”

Louis moves back to Harry’s side on the bed. Instead of feeling relief flow through his body, apprehension fades and turns into rage. He’s furious, heart thumping like a drum against his ribcage, his jaw clenching. It’s like Harry can read the rising temperature of his body like a thermometer, the pale-faced boy quickly latches onto Louis’ hands, pulling his white-knuckle fists apart until their palms meets, cold and hot.

“I had Fizz call Perrie,” Harry comments absentmindedly as the rest of the family fill the crowding bedroom and mumble amongst themselves. “She’s okay. She was walking back to her dorm from a friend’s apartment when Fizzy got a hold of her. She called poison control right away.”

 “I don’t get it,” Zayn says loudly.  “I understand why someone would send Harry poisonous flowers—sorry, H—but why Perrie and Sophia? Li and I haven’t seen them in like, forever.”

“I, um, actually...” Liam flushes, scratching the back of his neck. “I met her for lunch before we left for New York.” Zayn’s face turns stoic and Louis has never been happier to not be Liam James. “But, I mean, how _is_ Soph? Were you guys able to get in touch with her, too?”

Besides Louis, Harry’s breath stutters and everyone watches as the heart machine starts to beep a little louder, go a little faster. “Sophia—she—I…” Harry begins to say.

“Why don’t we all wait in the living room,” Johannah suggests politely, gently pushing all her children and the friendly doctor out of the door. The door shuts softly with a _snap_ and Harry’s heart rate begins to return to normal.

“ _Please_ ,” Louis grits out. “Tell me what happened before I completely lose my mind.”

“I was leaving for church and—“

“You were going to Sunday mass with my family without me?”

Harry looks sheepish as he nods. “Lottie invited me… Should I have said no?”

“No, no, no,” Louis rushes out. “I—I _like_ that. My sisters love you. I don’t mind.”

“Good.” Harry softly smiles before continuing, his hand squeezing Louis’ weakly. “The flowers were there before I left and I just assumed they were from you. I always read what they mean—like the primroses from the day before—and I read that they are, you know, toxic. I didn’t know what to do, so I called Lottie.”

“And she brought you here,” Louis assumes.

“Yeah, and after I woke up—“

“After you _woke up_?” he interrupts again.

Harry is quick to try and reassure him. “I might’ve fainted, _but_ Dr. Ferrero said it was just a side effect from the poison! I’m fine, really, just a little dehydrated.”

Louis tries to swallow the thick, sizzling hot piece of coal stuck in his throat. He’s afraid of saying another word; scared he might take it out on Harry, who’s been through enough already. He stiffly stands from the bed and paces the length of the dark room. He needs to leave— _now_. The urge to get his hands around the neck of whoever is responsible is so potent, that he doesn’t even say a simple goodbye as he walks out the door.

“Louis!” Harry calls behind him.

He hears shuffling in his room, but ignores it, patting himself down in search for a cig as he makes his way down the stairs. He’s lighting a Marlboro when he hears feet padding softly against the hardwood and when he looks up, Harry’s there, swaying slightly, fingers pressing gauze where the IV needle once was.

“Harry, what the fuck do you think you’re doing? Go back to bed!” Louis demands, going back up the stairs two steps at a time. “I can’t believe you took your—“

“Sophia’s d-dead.”

Louis visibly stumbles on the stairway. Harry’s looking down at him with wet eyes and trembling lips. “What? Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Harry hesitates, grabbing onto the railing as he continues to sway on his feet. “Lottie told me she loved flowers and that Liam used to buy her some all the time; proper romantic the Tomlinson men, when they choose to be. She used to love how they smelled. Her mother called Lottie after she couldn’t reach Liam or Johannah—said Sophia got extremely dehydrated and went into shock. Her toxin levels were off the chart.”

Harry’s openly sobbing now, over a woman he has only met a few times. His gauze has fallen to the floor and blood is trickling from his hand down to the imported, oriental carpet. Louis wants to comfort him. Louis wants to put him back into bed and hold him close, never let anyone hurt him again. He wants to go downstairs and do something, _say_ something, to Liam, who, despite everything, considered Sophia Smith a friend. But all Louis _can_ do is imagine how different things would be if Harry had inhaled a little more, if Harry had gone into shock, if his own heart had stopped beating.

“They tried to kill you,” is all that he finally says.

“What?” Harry gasps wetly. “No one is trying to kill me, Louis.”

“Stop being so naïve!” he shouts. “Someone sent you poisonous flowers, Harry! Someone has already died and you’re saying that they weren’t trying to kill you, too?”

“Louis, calm down.” His mother, along with the rest of the family—sans Liam and Zayn—are peering up at them curiously from the bottom of the stairs.

He lowers his voice and attempts to catch his breath, lit cigarette dangling from his fingertips. “Am I the only one who understands what’s going on here? Someone tried to poison my boyfriend. Sorry if I don’t feel like calming the fuck down.”

“Who would hurt Harry?” Niall asks with an innocent pout.

Louis squeezes his eyes shut, pressing his lips together out of frustration, releasing a strong breath through his nose. When he opens them again, he continues down the stairs, pushing past his family. He can’t let himself get distracted with the nonsense his mother and the rest of them spit. He’s not going to _calm down_ , he’s not going to rest until he finds the perpetrator, the one who is responsible for hurting Harry and killing a completely innocent person.  

“Louis?” Harry’s voice floats over everyone else’s, “Where are you going?” Louis feels his resolution begin to crack. He’s so weak for Harry; so pathetic and _pliant_ in a way he’s never experienced before. Louis’ very aware of the softness that takes over his face when he looks at his boy, so he refuses to spare him a glance, keeping his eyes straight forward. “Lou?”

“I have something to take care of, baby, I’ll be back later.”

“ _Where_ are you going?” Harry insists.

“Harry, I—“

“Just stay here with us—with _me_. Just—just cool off for a little bit, yeah? Talk to me?”

“ _N_ o, Harry, I have to go—“

“You’re going to do something stupid! You’re going to get yourself hurt,” Harry cries. When Louis turns, he holds his trembling hand out and looks at Louis with tearful eyes.

On another occasion, Louis would've gladly taken his hand. He would've swept Harry off his bare feet and scooped him up in his arms before going back upstairs to carefully dump him onto the bed. He would've stayed beside Harry until his skin turned back to its normal, pink flush and milky white coloring. Louis would've taken one of the first editions out of Johannah’s library and read until his boyfriend’s eyelids drooped and his breathing settled.

Right now, however, he can't do that. The fact that he hasn't been able to keep his boy safe, despite promising Harry just that, drives him up a wall. How many times will he swear to keep Harry safe only to fall through? Louis knows how lucky they got this time, but what about the next? What if next time it isn't just deadly flora, but something worse, something irreparable?

He shudders at the thought. He takes the stairs up to Harry, who's attempting at a damp smile, but the moment Louis takes his out stretched hand and places a soft kiss on the back of it only to take a step back, Harry's face falls again. “I'll be back,” he says quietly. “Please, just—if I mean anything to you, go back to bed.”

He doesn't wait for the boy's response; spinning around and jogging down the flight of steps once again. He doesn't meet the eyes of his family, refuses to read the pity on their faces: he's Louis fucking Tomlinson; he doesn't need anyone's damn _pity_. He flicks his cigarette onto the pavement. His body is on automatic pilot; getting into the first car he finds the keys to—his mother’s favorite Cadillac—and speeding out of the garage, down the long driveway and onto the empty streets.

He only takes his foot off the gas pedal when he screeches to a standstill in front of Harry's dorm building. He hardly notices the black, rubber marks on the pavement left by his mother’s car. He barges into the lobby and for a second he's thankful that it's not the usual, stubborn blond sitting behind the check-in desk, but another young man, and he throws a wad of Benjamin's at him. His gratitude is short lived when the guy shakes off his shock and starts to follow Louis, protesting.

“Dude! Dude, you can’t—you really can't go up there!”

Louis turns on his heel and sets his glare on the lanky student. “Was that not enough money for you?” He asks with a dangerous bite. “Or would you like some more?”

The brunet looks down at large stack of bills in his tight grip. “Naaaah,” he answers quickly, backing away from Louis. “Just like, dude, don't kill anyone, or nothing. You look like you’re ‘bout to murder someone.”

“I might,” Louis quips, stepping into the elevator. The doors close on the guy's stunned face, staring at him with wide eyes until the last moment. The ride up to Harry's floor is silent besides the constant humming of the elevator. He feels a shiver pass through him, a bit of sick excitement at the thought of getting answers and hunting the son of a bitch who hurt Harry. Someone _will_ be punished for what happened to both Harry and Sophia Smith, so help him God.

There's another part of him that wants to punish _himself_ for being like this. He didn't even kiss Harry goodbye, so set on his impulsive actions and dire need of justice for his boy. Did he even kiss Harry _hello_? He's so furious, almost breathing fire, that he begins to see in tunnel vision. It doesn't even matter that a small part of him knows he should calm down and breathe, and simply _think_ about the consequences of his actions and the trouble that they could bring to him and his family, because the larger side of him—the dominant, frightening side; the side that's meant to be a future boss—is much stronger.

Once out of the steel box, he jogs to Harry's hall, his set vision leading him. He doesn't plan to go into the room, doesn't have a key, anyway, but there are a few things already picking at his troubled brain.

One, he knows how easy it is to get access to the dorms and deliver things. Hell, he just paid off the front desk guy with a few hundreds and Louis is no stranger at delivering flowers, either. He knows Perrie, in New York, lives in a fancy apartment with some sort of minimal security, too. What about Sophia, though? He knows nothing about her living arrangements, or about her in general, despite that they spent many Sunday dinners across from each other. 

Two, the bastards who sent the deadly plants must know about Louis’ floral messages. They're being watched. Someone is keeping tabs on them and that thought alone makes Louis’ insides burn.

He twists around and glares at the decorated door across from Harry's. Annoying Ginger is the only person besides Louis to send his boy something—she must know, maybe heard or saw someone. He wouldn't put it pass Annoying Ginger to have gotten paid, again. His impatient knocks on her door quickly turn into painful bangs, before the door is shooting open and a short, pimply teenager is there, scratching his bare belly.

“What ya want?” He asks around a yawn.

“Ginger!” Louis shouts, not bothering with an answer, pushing past him and into the messy room. “Oi, Ginger! Wakey, wakey!” He shoves the girls’ books off her shelf for extra noise and turns the lit television volume up to a level that has even Louis wincing.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Ginger’s boyfriend demands, turning the television off. He gets in Louis’ face, yelling, “Who the _hell_ are you?”

“Sit down.” Louis orders, pushing the boy away from him. The boy stumbles backwards and protests, getting back up before Louis towers over him menacingly. “ _Sit_ down.”

Ginger mumbles and rolls over to face him, her covers sliding down to her bare waist. The shirt her boyfriend throws at her hits her face, but she only holds the fabric to her chest, squinting at Louis. “Wha is goin’ on?”

“Did you send Harry flowers?”

“ _Wha_?”

“Did—you—send—Harry—flowers?”

Ginger denies it, slapping herself lightly to wake up. “Why would I do that? I'm pretty sure he's gay. Not that I'm not into that, I do enjoy some Drarry once in a while. The last thing I gave him was that USB.”

“Did you see anyone suspicious around his door? Maybe with a package?”

“No—“

“Think hard. Maybe you just forgot.”

“I didn't forget anything,” Ginger says assuredly. She yawns and drops back on the mattress. “No one leaves anything for Harry besides you, anyway.   _Everyone_ at school knows you're together.”

He's not surprised that Harry's classmates know about them, fuck, everyone in Chicago knows about their relationship. After coming out and being seen exchanging some PDA here and there, and the few paps in the city eating it up, you'd have to live under a rock not to know. What worries him is just _how_ many people know of his gifts to Harry. Who would intentionally want to hurt Harry—and Sophia and Perrie?

“If you remember anything, call me.” He's quick to scribble his contact information on a blank page in a daily planner. “Harry won't be living here, anymore,” he mentions on his way out.

“What? _Why_?”

“Thanks, Ginger!”

“My name is Br—”

The door slams behind him and he hurries back into the elevator. The Cadillac is still warm when he climbs back inside, and he sits there in silence, with a white-knuckle grip on the leather steering wheel; familiar, dangerous faces clouding his red vision. At his standing, one might think the possibilities are endless, but Louis has two particular people in mind who would have no qualms about hurting his loved ones.

Would the Lucases be stupid enough to try and pull something as underhanded, deceitful, and malignant as this? Louis snorts, _of course they would._ He wouldn't put its past Chloe and Stan, those lunatic siblings, but something about the whole process doesn't seem… _Complete_ to Louis. Where is their calling card? A few toxic flowers seem much too tame for the Greek family, and besides, they’re known for finishing what they started. With a shudder, he realizes Harry would be dead right now if it truly was their work.

He pulls into traffic with a sharp turn and drives by one of Chicago’s finest, a man dressed in his uniform, leaning against the white and blue car with Dunkin’ Donuts coffee in hand. Typical.

He wants to convince himself how fucking illogical and hollow it is to even _consider_ Jacen Wilds a part of this, but if anyone knows how dirty cops can be, it's a crook himself. As much as it pains Louis, he has to admit they both have a similar work ethic; they’re devious, intelligent, sneaky, and defiers of the law. If Jacen Wilds wants a reaction out of Louis, he sure as hell is going to get one.

He doesn't remember the last time he was this vehement, his body tremulous. Anything before this seems childish and inane. He sees the building before he realizes where he's heading and the brakes stop with an unpleasant screech. He slams the door and has a heavy foot on the sidewalk, before someone is grabbing onto his shoulder and pushing him against the Cadillac with a painful thud.

“What the fuck do you think you're doing?” Zayn exclaims, “Have you completely lost it?”

“What the hell are you doing here?” Louis asks instead, shifting himself off the car and smoothing down his clothing.

“Fuck, I knew it! I knew something like this would make you blow up—you've gone completely crazy. Coming here, _really_ , Lou?” Zayn holds his leather clad arms out, glaring at the double doors of the police department. “Harry's worried sick. He said you'd be up to something ridiculously stupid and he was right.”

Louis rolls his eyes and tries not to make a run for it. “He always worries.”

“You give him a reason to! C’mon, Louis, let's go home.”

“I bet you're happy about this!” Louis claims, knocking his brothers’ hand off his shoulder, circling him. “You always hated her guts. You couldn't even stand to be in the same room with her.”

“Well, she sure as fuck wasn't sucking _me_ off!” Zayn shouts back, grabbing him again, his grip on Louis’ biceps getting tighter with the seconds.

Louis scoffs and yanks his arm away. “That was one time, asshole. I wouldn't be able to count all the times she got down for Liam— _oomph_!” He stumbles backwards violently, the air leaving his lungs, and for a few long seconds, his brain is muddled by what just happened. Zayn just pushed him—and _hard_ —and the fury in his eyes takes him by surprise.

“Don't,” Zayn grits out. His jaw twitches and his tan, tattooed hands clench up into fists by his sides. “I never—I never wanted that for her. She's dead now and there's nothing anyone can do about it, but Louis, I swear, if you ever bring Liam up like that, I will fucking hurt you, you fucking dick.”

“Is this why you came here?” asks Louis. He stands akimbo, tapping his foot on the ground. His stance breathes annoyed, and he doesn't understand why Zayn won't let him be and just beat someone’s ass.

“Harry needs you. _Liam_ needs you. He needs you there, not here, getting everyone into trouble and dragging the family name even further. He needs us, he needs his brothers.”

“Oh? So you're his _brother_ now? Can you just pick and choose whenever you— “

“Just shut the fuck up,” Zayn snaps. He huffs and breaths put of his nose, his patience surely wearing as thin as Louis’. “I get that you're mad and spewing stupid shit right now, so I'm going to let that go. Now, what the fuck are you planning?” He asks, nodding towards the building behind them.

“I—I. Something.” With that he spins on his feet and marches inside. He has a mission, he _does_ , but he always thinks better under self-made pressure. The building he's in is enormous and crawling with scum—it's the biggest police department in the whole city, with thousands of officers. He'll go through all of them to get to Wilds; he’ll go through all of them for Harry. But right now, he has to go through security.

“Your name, honey?” The woman at the front desk asks, red lipstick smudged on her front teeth. Her accent is thick and her eye shadow bright, and when Louis impatiently hands over his driver’s license, her penciled brows almost reach her hairline.

“Is that it, then?” Louis huffs.

“Uh, who is it that you wanted to see, hun?”

“The commissioner,” he lies. He's ushered into the metal detector with no problem—his guns hidden in the secret compartment in Johannah’s vehicle—and after a few questions, he's finally let through. Before the elevator doors shut, Zayn slides in, breathless.

“I'm angry, too. I love Harry like a brother. Perrie and Sophia—they didn't deserve to be targets of something like that.”

“Why are you here?” Louis repeats for what feels like the umpteenth time.

“I'm here because Harry asked me to be.” He turns to Louis and shrugs. “Li and I talked about this before,” Zayn explains. “We knew eventually you'd be hunting Wilds down and what happened today with Harry was enough of a push.”

Louis lifts a brow. “And?” He asks, knowing his brother well enough to recognize that's not the end to it.

“And, I..,” Zayn trails off sheepishly. “I don't know, bro, I guess I want answers, too. You know, for Liam.”

“Right, for _Liam_.” Louis lets a little smile crawl onto his face.

His brother laughs dryly. “Just ‘cause I'm not a big drama queen like you, doesn't mean I'm not angry.”

Louis flips him off and the elevator doors opening saves Zayn from a verbal lashing. The corridors are quiet, and it being Sunday means he won't have difficulty finding his target in the mostly empty premises. He knows his target well enough to be sure he'll be lurking around during the weekend. With Zayn on his heels, Louis makes his way around the cubicles and hallways, until he reaches the offices of the higher ups.

He doesn't bother with pleasantries once he sees _Wilds_ on a closed door, barging right in. The man doesn't startle, just breezes on with his crossword puzzle, rhythmically tapping a pen against his desktop. Louis wants to stab him with it, but instead he crosses the room in quick strides and slams a hand against the desk. “What the hell did you _do_? I'm going to fucking kill you!”

“And what's got dear Louis Tomlinson hopped up enough to threaten a cop?” Jacen smirks. He doesn't move from his comfortable position, his feet propped up against the table.

Louis seethes. “I know you sent Harry those flowers.”

“What are you smoking now, Tomlinson?” Wilds leers, “The only flowers I’ve sent are to my nanna in Michigan. You see, she's fallen ill— “

“Cut the shit,” Louis interjects. “I don't care if you have a problem with me, or my brothers, but leave Harry out of it.”

“Oh, _no_ , Louis.” Wilds laughs and the young Tomlinson man winces, the sound like nails on a chalkboard. “Did someone hurt your precious Harry?”

“You hurt Harry and you killed Sophia!” Louis is shouting now, his face burning red like an open flame. He can hardly hear over the fast, constant _lub dub lub dub_ of his heart. He's sure he must be a sight, with that vein popping out in his forehead. He doesn't lower his accusing finger, so close to Wilds that he could poke his eye out and smell his cheap, pungent cologne.

“I didn't kill anyone, Tomlinson.” Wilds’ face goes stony at the accusation, all hints of humor and smugness dropped. “The only _murderer_ here is you. You're the one who—“

Louis blinks and blindly lunges, and a quick second later, Zayn is pulling him back, restraining him, as Wilds’ desk chair jumps and rolls backwards until it hits the wall. The policeman scowls as he wipes blood off his bottom lip, and Louis notes in amusement that he finally found a way to shut him up. He doesn't even care about the trouble he can get into for assaulting a police officer: seeing the shock and anger on Wilds’ face fills him with some sick satisfaction, even with his brother yelling obscenities at him and digging his nails into Louis’ skin to hold him back. He's puzzled for a moment, feeling Zayn’s hands shake furiously on his shoulders, before realizing its _him_ that's shaking; his body trembling like seismic waves.

“Don't you ever come near him again! I'll kill you,” Louis bellows. He pushes Zayn away and clenches his fists, barely noticing the red sting on his knuckles. “I will end you,” he promises.

“Are you threatening me, Louis Tomlinson?” The man stands and angrily shoves the chair back against the desk. He looms over them with his burly figure and glares.

“Yes!”

“I should have you arrested. Assaulting a police officer is a serious offense,” Wilds spits. “But, honestly.” He shrugs. “We all know you'd get out in less than five minutes, so what's point?”

Louis rolls his eyes. “Put me in fucking jail, I don't care, but don't even think of coming five feet from Harry. He has nothing to do with _this_!”

“He has _everything_ to do with this!” Wilds shouts back; Louis finally getting the reaction he was looking for. “You got him involved with this the moment you took him home from some trashy club. Do you think he's going to stick around to deal with your bullshit forever, Tomlinson?”

Louis inches forward, snarling. “I know he's going to stick around. Don't even bother going into his records to find something to use against us—you'll come up empty.”

“His mother is a cop,” Wilds snorts.

“Why do you care about a relationship that isn’t even fucking yours? Harry _isn't_ going anywhere.”

“If you say so. We all know you'll keep getting him in trouble and in bad situations, and all you will do is blame other people for your deadly mistakes. Don't blame me for your stupidity, Tomlinson—I haven't touched the boy.”

“Sending him toxic flowers and having someone slide shady USBs under his door _isn't_ him?”

Wilds shrugs again. “I don't know what fucking flowers you're talking about, but the USB… He had the right to know. Where you ever going to tell him?” he questions. "I helped the kid out."

“That wasn't your fucking choice to make!” Louis snaps, feeling his pressure rise.

“For fuck’s sake, Tomlinson!” Wilds lets a burst of laughter escape him as he hops up on his tabletop without a worry. “You think you're some sort of twisted superhero, some sort of indestructible man nobody can touch. When, in reality, all you've ever done besides be mommy’s pet is put Harry Styles in danger.”

“You fucking— “

“Louis, we've got to go!” Zayn orders, tugging on his arm. Louis turns his baneful gaze on his brother, ready to protest, but the urgency on Zayn's face stops him and he lets himself be dragged out the door.

“Don’t worry,” Wilds calls out jokingly. “I'll keep an eye out on your precious Harry!”

“Oi! Fuck you!” He's ready to go back in the office and throw another punch at the man’s ugly, smug face, but Zayn has other plans. His older brother pushes him, slamming him against the nearest wall, weary, amber eyes flitting around at the calculated policemen peeking out from their cubicles.

“You need to shut the fuck up,” he hisses, holding Louis tight against the smooth surface. “We could've been arrested. Louis, you fucking punched him!”

“At least I did something!” Louis argues. “You just stood there like an idiot. I thought you wanted answers. _For Liam_ , remember?”

“I got some.” Zayn holds up a neatly folded piece of paper in between two fingers. He shoves it into his back pocket before Louis can snatch it up. “We need to leave. Your commotion is causing a lot questions.” They both look up to see men and women in uniform staring at them, hands over their holsters.

They leave the building as quickly as they went in; Louis bouncing on his feet on the way to Zayn's black Bentley, pent up energy buzzing through him. They climb inside and Louis lights a cigarette, immediately feeling his body relax a few notches as the smoke leaves his system. He watches his brother unfold the mysterious paper.

“So what is it, then?” The information on the sheet doesn't really make much sense to him. It's clearly a phone transcript between Alexei and Stanley Lucas, but Louis doesn't understand their words. He has a feeling it's important, and he looks over at Zayn in question.

“They're tracking them,” Zayn explains.

“So what?”

“We shouldn't be doing business with the Lucases, not if Wilds and his people are following them.”

Louis huffs and hands the paper back. “They're following us, too, Z, we all know that.”

“I don't know, Lou, like.” Zayn takes the cig from his fingers and glares out his window. “We should tell Ma.”

“ _This_ is the answer to your questions?” Louis stabs the paper with his finger. “This has nothing to do with Harry or Perrie or whatever just happened in Wilds’ office.”

“It does, though, doesn't it? He's trying to take us down like a totem pole.”

Oh.

He doesn't have to think about it for long. It makes sense, his brother is right; Wilds could definitely be using the totem pole tactic. The scheme has existed since the beginning of time in the crime world. When one family works with the police to take down a rival family, they use the weakest link; Louis knows that, in this case, the link is Harry. Slowly, but surely, Harry would be frightened into giving up information on the family. He would be threatened and scared, and it all makes perfect sense. The Lucases have nothing to lose and so much to gain by working with Wilds to take down the Tomlinson’s.

“Fuck! _Fuck_!” Louis cries in outrage, fingers twitching in the need to punch something, anything. Instead he gets out of the car and slams the door, ignoring his brother’s yelp.

“You have to warn him, Louis!”

“I have to handle it,” he answers. He stomps off to the Cadillac like a child, immediately whipping his phone out to check up on his boy. ‘ _Where are you ?’_ he writes.

Harry's answer is immediate. ‘ _At yours. Where are you? :(‘_

‘ _Don't move.’_

He speeds towards the penthouse, swerving through cars like a mad man. He just—he hates it. He hates to admit it, but Jacen Wilds is right about a few things. It's his fault Harry is in this situation, but he can't change that now, it's too late. He has to come to terms with it and like he'd said earlier, Harry isn't leaving. His boy is by his side and he's not going anywhere.

Harry promised him that.

He's anxious on the ride up to the top floor, his feet bouncing nervously. He knows what to expect. He's not naïve enough to believe Harry will take it lying down, knows his boy can be feisty and stubborn, and those are two of the many things he loves most about him, but _God_ , how he wishes Harry won't be _too_ angry. He can already picture the pink pout on his grumpy _gattino’s_ sweet face.

“Baby?” His voice echoes throughout the seemingly empty living room, but he's not two steps into the kitchen when the sound of feet pattering against the hardwood floors meets his ears and two, warm, tattooed arms encircle around his middle in a tight grip. “Baby,” he sighs, instantly relaxing against his boyfriend. He feels the stress and tension from today's event melt away; Harry's calming effect better than any sedative.

“Please tell me you're okay,” Harry mumbles into the fabric of Louis’ sweater.

“I am.”

“Then tell me you didn't do anything stupid.”

Louis hesitates. “I just paid a visit to my pals at the Organized Crime Division.”

“Lou!” When Harry pulls away with an aggravated huff, the elder of the two turns around and is immediately pleased at the sight before him. Harry's cheeks have a tinge of pink and his eyes are bright and focused. He's dressed down in a large, worn tee—that Louis is sure once belonged to his brother, Liam—that hits above the knee, doubling as a nightshirt. “Why in the—what were you thinking?”

“I was _thinking_ ,” he starts casually as he makes his way further into the kitchen. “That I needed answers, so. I went and got them.” The lights flicker on and he pauses, eyes flickering over the marble countertops. “Harry...?”

“Look, I can explain—“

“Is she still here?”

“Who, Louis?” Harry questions tiredly.

“Ma.” Louis blinks slowly at the massive amount of food covering his kitchen. There are multiple casserole pots on his stove and deep-dish pans on his counters. From pastas and pots of soup, to a small turkey and a roast, to red velvet cupcakes and a few dozen chocolate chip cookies cooling on a rack. “How fucking long was I gone?”

“Actually, um, your mom—Jay had nothing to do with this,” Harry admits sheepishly. He attempts at a laugh. “Although she did give me the recipe to her delicious baked ziti.”

“You did this?” He asks, glancing around the kitchen in awe. There's enough food to feed them and their extended family for Sunday dinner.

“I cook when I'm nervous,” Harry mumbles. He's apprehensive, refusing to meet Louis’ eyes as he stares down at his baby blue socks. He has a pout on his face—not his grumpy _gattino_ pout, but a slightly different one, one a little bit sadder. It's his upset _gattino_ frown, his pink lips turned downwards, and _of course._

Louis wants to kick himself. He's been nothing but a complete ass to Harry since he arrived at the estate; all muddled by fury and vexation, that he reflected his feelings onto his boy, taking it out on him. To Louis, everything happened so quickly—in the door one second and out the next—that he can hardly remember everything that happened before he got into his mother’s Cadillac. He knows he didn't kiss Harry, that's for sure,

“How can I—?” He begins awkwardly. “What should I— “

“ _Baciami_ ,” Harry purrs with confidence. “You haven't kissed me in _days_.” He starts towards Louis, where he's leaning against the refrigerator, his body smooth and sly like a feline on the prowl, but his face open and sweet like that of a Persian. He’s still tired from this morning’s fiasco and he probably thinks he’s hiding it well from Louis, the silly boy. “I've missed you so much, and you got here and all I wanted was a kiss, but you—“

Harry's words die as Louis joins their lips together, and _God,_ it’s been too long since he's had him. It's been too long since he felt Harry's heat radiate under his fingertips, his taste, his smell, his _mouth._ His lips so red and sweet like berries, his lips so good he forgets his own name.

He's gently edged out of his blissful internal mantra on his boy's talented mouth when said boy presses him against the cold, fridge door. Harry's squeezing his hips and Louis’ own hands travel up his boyfriend’s slim body, reaching up to twist a calloused hand at the nape of Harry's neck, tugging at tangled curls. That earns him a moan—which he happily swallows—and Harry rutting against his leg. He doesn't chide him like he normally would, letting Harry have this little bout of fun.

Louis’ lungs are beginning to burn when Harry pulls away abruptly. The boy takes a step backwards and blushes, wiping the wetness from his swollen lips. He runs long fingers through his hair and sighs happily, and Louis just wants to kiss him some more, kiss him forever.

“I got a little carried away,” Harry admits with a giggle.

“Aren’t you tired?”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Harry stresses. “Everyone overreacted. Besides, Dr. Ferrero gave me a clean bill of health. I have no toxins in my body. Hungry?”

Louis watches as Harry moves around the kitchen fluidly, opening cabinets and drawers and fixing him a hefty plate of several dishes. Louis doesn’t know what it all is, but he does see a few veggies—because of course, Harry’s internal mother hen never rests—and bites back a childish protest.  Despite the unnecessary amount of broccoli and spinach and other gross greens, it all smells delicious; his stomach growling in excitement.

“How are you feeling, then, baby?” he questions after swallowing a bite of ziti.

“Much better.” Harry picks the lilac polish off his nail beds, shrugging. “The IV did wonders. Dr. Ferrero gave me some medicine to take, but nothing permanent.”

“I can’t—“ Louis glares at his slice of turkey, knife spearing through the meat with too much force, scratching the surface of the plate and causing Harry to wince. “I can’t believe someone would do that to the girls. To _you_.”

“Did you find out who it is?  Did you?” Harry’s voice goes higher, a hint of relief in his tone. “Sophia’s parents, they deserve to know—“

“No,” Louis interrupts reluctantly.

Harry splutters. “But—but you said you have answers!”

“I have leads, okay? Nothing solid yet.”

“So, I’m guessing the _police_ was a dead end,” the curly haired boy replies so shockingly cold, that it sends a shiver up Louis’ spine. He’s angry, eyebrows furrowed and lips pursed. Harry stutters, “You’re so—you’re so—“

“So _what_?” Louis challenges. Dinner has been forgotten, quickly going cold in front of him, and he feels himself getting frustrated again, not pleased with Harry’s tone.

“Impulsive!” he grits out. “It’s like you’re purposefully seeking out trouble with that devil-may-care attitude of yours.”

“Impulsive?” Louis repeats. “If springing into action when someone harms the one I love is impulsive, then so be it. I’m not going to apologize for that, Harry. I’m not going twiddle my thumbs like a fucking idiot and watch as someone tries to kill you!”

Harry’s hard stance crumbles. “I get that, Lou, but—“

“ _Do you_? Do you really? ‘Cause I don’t think you have a fucking clue!” Louis frets. “You’re damn lucky you didn’t end up like Sophia today, Harry, and I’m going to do whatever it takes to make sure you’re never in the position again.”

“Oh, yeah?” Harry stiffens and scowls, his green eyes sharp like icicles. “And how are you going to do that? Going to keep me under lock and key in your bedroom?”

“If it helps,” Louis answers; calmly sipping the red wine his seething partner poured him earlier.

“I can’t just _sit_ here and rot because you’re scared!” Harry argues.

Louis rolls his eyes at that. “I’m not scared, but you’re not seeing the big picture here. I also think it’ll be best if you stay here and not at your dorm, anymore. The idea of them knowing where you sleep at night makes me want to hunt them down, take a knife, and gauge their—uh, never mind,” he says, stopping short when Harry’s eyes widen immensely.

There’s long silence that falls heavily between them. He watches as Harry opens and closes his mouth repeatedly, his wide-ranging emotions drawn across his face like an picture book. He has all the color picked off his nails, little pieces of soft purple scattered across the table, and Louis doesn’t like the way his fingers look bare and vulnerable without bold rings and bright nail varnish. It doesn’t look like _Harry_.

“You know,” Harry speaks up softly, clearing his throat. “When I imagined you asking me to move in, well, you were asking and not demanding. I pictured you taking me out to dinner, some place nice where the waiters have fake French accents and the classical music makes me a little sleepy, or maybe even back on your boat, where your eyes would look like the Pacific Ocean underneath the fairy lights. And we both know that the thought of anyone knowing how incredibly sappy and romantic you can be makes you uncomfortable, but that wouldn’t stop you from making a big show out of it and putting the key card in a special box just to rile me up.”

“Harry—“

“I'm not going to stop living my life, Louis!”  He shouts, his chair screeching loudly against the tile as he pushes himself up from the table. Louis is forced to look up at him. “I can't even leave my own dorm without Bates shadowing me. People don't even talk to me because of the enormous, glaring giant following me all over campus.”

“It's for your own good,” Louis tries. Maybe he should be a bit more understanding, because unlike him, Harry didn't grow up with a trail of bodyguards behind him. He knows he might be crossing the line, but if it keeps him safe and sound, then so be it. Hopefully Harry will understand one day. “This is part of the package that comes with being with me, I told you that. You agreed to it.”

“Yeah, um.” Harry blinks rapidly and swiftly turns towards the door. “I think I need to read the terms and conditions a little closer.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Louis snaps.

“I just—nothing.”

“We're going to pick up your stuff tomorrow!” Louis calls out behind the hasty boy. He refuses to acknowledge Harry's shady quip about reading the terms better—because, _really_?

“Fuck off, _Dad_!” Harry answers from the living room. There’s a door slamming upstairs seconds later.

Then, it’s quiet, like the calm before the storm. What just happened? Did they have their first fight as a couple? He looks across from him, at the nail polish flecks on the table. It, for some odd reason, all feels very monumental. He stands and wipes the flecks off the tabletop and onto the palm of his hand, before dumping them into the trash.

The rest of the day is silent. Harry’s warmth doesn’t fill every room he skips into, causing the whole penthouse to feel cold and lonely, despite the fact they’re both in the same apartment. Harry doesn’t crack—he doesn’t mutter a single word and Louis refuses to be the first one to speak. They’re both as stubborn as mules. He just doesn’t understand—why is it so hard for Harry to see that this is for his own good, that Louis is just protecting him? Louis has failed too many times already and he refuses to do it once more.

They are unsurprisingly dedicated to avoiding each other, but whenever they’re both in the same room, the air crackles with tension. Louis tried, he truly did: every time he got the chance, he’d open his mouth to explain to Harry, to try to reason, but the college student would only gift him with a weak glare.

By sundown, Louis has headphones snuggled over his ears and a tight expression on his face. His eyes follow Harry as the boy jumps up and down the living room with Louis’ vintage Stratocaster strapped on his person, strumming loudly and shouting the words to every single Beyoncé song he knows. He’s not even playing the guitar, just angrily plucking at the chords and yelling with a smug expression, cookie crumbs falling from his open lips.

“Wow, this is fun!” Harry cries, clumsily jumping off beat. “Imagine, now that I live here, I get to do this _every_ day!” He bites into another chocolate chip cookie, the sweet treat crumbling and falling onto the white carpet.

Louis watches carefully, sat on the edge of his seat in case he needs to snap up quickly and grab an exhausted Harry. The eighteen-year-old was vomiting his guts out earlier and now he’s singing and dancing despite the way he’s panting and the obvious headache he’s sporting that causes his eyes to squint. Louis waits patiently for his boy to crash.

 

Hours later, Louis watches Harry stroll out of their bathroom in his slinky, blush pink, silk robe that reaches his upper thigh and leaves little to the imagination. His curls are up in a fluffy bun and his face is shiny and clean. Harry grabs a pillow from the bed and huffs.

“I’m going to sleep in the guest room,” he says indignantly.

“There are clean pillows in the guest rooms, you don’t have to take mine.”

Harry replies crossly, “I want this one.”

“Suit yourself.” Louis flashes him an indifferent smile and pushes a button on the remote on his nightstand. Instantly, the room floods with darkness, and he sinks under the covers. He hears Harry standing in the middle of the room until the boy finally leaves quietly, shutting the door behind him with a small thud. This isn’t what Louis had expected after being away for a few days, but he can’t help acting like a child, too, when Harry is being so damn immature.

He can’t sleep that night; tossing and turning in bed. Before Harry, this is how he used to ‘rest’ most nights. His brain would never shut off and eventually, he would just give up all together. The alarm clock next to the bed flashes two a.m. in an angry shade of red when he finally gets up and drags his feet to the guest rooms downstairs. He finds Harry cuddled underneath a mountain of blankets and doesn’t think twice before lifting him up and placing him in his arms, chest to chest.

“Put me down,” the sleepy man mutters. His arms wrap Louis’ neck, placing his warm cheek against Louis’ bare skin, thick thighs going around to wrap tightly at his waist.  

“You’re coming to bed with me,” Louis whispers. He makes his way out of the bedroom and up the stairs, Harry a nice weight in his arms.

“But ‘m mad at you. I don’t like you.”

Louis laughs lightly at that. “You are mad at me, but you _love_ me.”

“Bleh,” is all Harry mumbles, curling against Louis’ warm chest. He doesn’t struggle once, instead immediately snuggles up to him once they’re both back in their king size bed. They don’t move for the rest of the night, limbs intertwined comfortably.

After the funeral the next evening, the air back in the penthouse feels heavy with words they haven’t said. Louis’ never been much of a crier and watching Harry tear up at Sophia’s funeral was a shock to him. Why’s it that someone Harry hardly knew caused such a reaction out of him? Is it death in general? Is it just that little piece inside of Harry filled with warmth and love and sympathy that Louis seems to be missing?  

(Or is it that it could’ve easily been Harry the one they were lowering into the ground in a wooden box?)

Louis’ eyes follow as his boyfriend shuffles slowly up the stairs towards the bedroom, stopping abruptly at the top of the staircase. He watches silently as Harry takes a deep breath and mumbles to himself, still dressed in his fancy, black velvet suit and black Yves Saint Laurent button-down. His curls are down and there are no diamonds in his ears or polish on his nails.

The morning had been rough. Despite the night’s sweet snuggling, Harry refused to speak to him when the sun rose. Breakfast was awkward, with Harry still preparing them nicely done eggs with bacon— _tofu_ bacon, of all things, but Louis thought it best to keep his mouth shut and finish every bite—and freshly squeezed orange juice. The ride to Graceland Cemetery was infuriating at best, with Harry’s head against the window and his eyes closed, and Louis having no other choice but to answer emails on his phone to pass the time. Even on the cold grounds of the graveyard, the family noticed the space between the bickering couple and Louis refused to meet his mother’s knowing gaze.

Now, however, Louis is sitting on the edge of the massive couch in the living room, with a quick glass of scotch in his hand and Harry’s stare on him for the first time since yesterday evening. His boy is looking at him expectantly, but like many times before, he doesn’t know what to do. Does he join him? Will Harry turn him away?

“Are you coming?” Harry asks softly, silencing Louis’ redundant thoughts. He holds his hand out and the elder of the two is quick to set his drink on a coaster and take the stairs two at the time. They both let out respective sighs of relief when their fingers intertwine, and Harry smiles lightly, tugging on their grip, and leading them towards their bedroom. They plop down on the bed, Harry immediately crawling on top of Louis, resting his chin on the soft material of the dress shirt covering his torso.

“Harry—?”

“Liam looked really bad today,” Harry interjects. He pouts and begins to play with the buttons of Louis’ shirt, slowly slipping them through the holes. His pale fingers dance across the older man’s hair-dusted chest, slightly tickling his sensitive skin.  “I feel bad for him.”

“Don’t. Liam’s a Tomlinson—he hates feeling pitied.”

Harry mumbles. “I don’t feel pity for him! It’s a—a miserable situation and she didn’t deserve that. It could’ve been worse,” he mumbles.

Louis agrees, “Yes, it could’ve. Do you see why I’m doing this? That could’ve been _you_.”

Harry doesn’t reply, casting his eyes down. For a moment, Louis worries he’s gone and upset his _bellissimo gattino_ once again. The uneasiness multiples as Harry yanks his hand from underneath the shirt, scratching Louis’ skin, as he scoots off him and climbs off the bed, landing quietly on his feet like the cat that he truly is. 

“I’ll be back,” Harry answers the question in Louis’ eyes. He doesn’t wait for Louis to ask, flying out of the room in a flash of Parisian black.

Louis’ left alone with a roiling in his stomach and a myriad of foul thoughts. The minutes pass slowly without Harry, and as much as he wants to go investigate, he stays put. He does stand, however, walking over to the glass wall, to watch as the sun goes down, beginning to hide behind the expansive, frozen lake. The sky is streaked with marigold and hues of lavender, and he knows that it is beautiful. He’s watched thousands of dawns and dusks, sights that National Geographic would pay for, but they’ve never taken his breath away.

He moves away from the glass, his eyes catching on a large, monogramed Louis Vuitton duffel by his closet door. He curses to himself; how could he have forgotten? He heaves the bag onto the bed, unzipping it, the recognizable scent of new money hitting his nose. He dumps out the whole bag, lining some of the stacks up neatly, before beginning to break the seals. Liam likes to care of all the money and it’s Louis’ job to deliver it to him in stacks of fifty without seals, just rubber bands.

He’s in the middle of wrapping a band on one of the stacks, when Harry wanders back in, something underneath his arm, his steps slow as honey, determined as a steamroller. His face is blank, not sparring a glance Louis’ way, but Louis’ trained eyes don’t miss the miniscule lift of a corner on his favorite, cherry-red lips. The younger male makes his way across the room to the vanity without a word, connecting his cell phone to the wireless speakers scattered around. A familiar tune floats out, one that’s only available on a certain place on Harry’s phone, and just the thought of what’s to come as they listen to the _L_ playlist brings a sharp grin to Louis’ face.

“Baby—?”

When Harry turns around, his lips fall open, Bambi eyes wide and glancing across every inch of the green-covered bed. “Lou, what—what is this?” He stumbles, his steps not as confident before, as he reaches out towards the bed. “How much is this? I’ve never seen this much money. This is like my tuition at Northwestern!”

Louis bites his tongue. This money is worth a lot more than a measly fifty grand a year at Northwestern. “Something like that, sure. What have you got there?” He nods towards the plastic container Harry still hasn’t let go of. He sits on the brink of the bed, some of bills spilling onto the floor.

Harry climbs onto his lap, settling across his thighs as light as a feather, legs swinging where they hang off to the side. Harry plops the worn Tupperware across his own lap, looking up at him innocently as Louis raises his brows in a mixture of confusion and amusement. Snaking a greedy arm around his baby’s waist, he opens the plastic food storage, using the lid as a makeshift table to balance the weed and rolling papers.

“What kind of millionaire keeps his pot in Tupperware?” The boy on his lap asks, relaxing against his chest. His green eyes watch as Louis makes quick work of grinding the weed, when they’re not flitting back to the money on the bed. Louis can tell he’s stalling, making time for something, but for what? “I bet Jay Z keeps his in like, a crystal jar or something, with encrusted diamonds.”

“It’s actually an antique wooden box from Paris,” he replies matter-of-factly. Louis holds the unfinished joint to his boyfriend’s lips, Harry looking at him with dubious eyes, before he leans forward, gently trailing his pointed tongue across the adhesive strip of the paper. Louis grins like an impatient wolf, his sharp teeth glinting in dim light filtering into the room. He finishes rolling, twisting the end of the joint. “It’s gold plated, but no diamonds, sorry, princess.”

“You’re lying!” Harry exclaims. “How would you even know that?”

“I might’ve smoked a blunt with him, once or twice. We’ve had business with him before, Liam mostly.”

Harry’s brows furrow. “You’ve sold weed to Jay Z?”

Louis snorts. “We’re not celebrity drug dealers, baby. Guns on the other hand…” He trails off, laughing at his boy’s shocked expression. He pushes the opened box off Harry’s lap, its contents scattering on the floor. On another day, he would’ve cringed and picked it up immediately, however, right now, he’s got a— _his_ —gorgeous, pouty boy on his lap and a nice, fat joint in between his fingers.

“Does Yoncé know about this?”

“Lighter, please.”

Said pouty boy hands him a lighter, a boring, black BIC, and he lights it. They’ve done this before; Harry across his thighs, holding a joint to Louis’ lips, sneaking in not-so-subtle puffs when he thinks Louis isn’t watching. They’ve done it in the privacy of their own home— _their home_ , it still freaks Louis out—after a long day, or with his brothers, unwinding and having a laugh. Harry’s never insinuated this before, he’s certainly never gone as far as to search for it in Louis’ (clearly not so well) hidden spot, and placing it directly on his lap.

He inhales, with a special pair of green eyes trained on his lips, and holds it in for a few, long seconds before exhaling, watching his pink-cheeked _gattino_ through a smokescreen. He doesn’t even have time to blink before Harry’s attacking him, lunging at him until they’re both going down on the cash-covered, black silk, straddling him and pushing their lips together. Louis laughs against Harry’s lips, holding the joint far from their bodies or the money, before kissing him back, Harry licking at the sweet, dark taste of his mouth.

“You’re being so naughty today, Princess,” Louis mumbles when he pulls back, mouthing against his favorite spot below Harry’s jaw, suckling until the skin is red and hot. Harry makes a noise above him, his eyes scrunched shut. “You ignore me when I speak to you. You embarrass me in front of my family.”

“I’m—I’m sorry.” Harry sits back, his thighs caging Louis’ torso. His stare is intense, gaping down at him, as Louis takes another hit, blowing it at Harry’s face.

The Benjamins crinkle beneath him and the smoke feels uncomfortable in his throat lying down, but he continues. “You walk out and you don’t tell me where you’re going. You _attack_ me.” He follows the anxious bobbing of Harry’s throat.

“I made you eat tofu,” Harry adds in a meek voice. “That’s so bad.”

And, _god_ , that should ruin this for Louis, shouldn’t it? The air between them is still thick and dense, the weed dank and so good, buzzing through his body, but his boy. His boy is silly and so damn gorgeous, it makes Louis weak. Harry’s on top of him, wearing black velvet of all things, with eyes as foggy as the smoke Louis exhales. _Harry_ is his sunset, his marigold and lavender horizon, the only thing that’s ever made his breath catch in his throat.

He feels himself fattening up in his slacks, but Harry feels it first, working his bottom lip white, pushing back against Louis. Louis grips his waist tightly, his fingertips digging into soft, cushiony hips; a warning. He brings the jay to his lips, inhaling. He doesn’t have to tell Harry to lean in, the boy just does it, his mouth opening in greeting, receiving the smoke that Louis blows in, happily. Louis licks into his mouth, his grip tighter with every passing second.

They do it again, exchanging smoke and saliva. Then again, and again, and again, until Louis’ lips tingle and he has goosebumps riding on his arms and the joint is almost a roach. Harry can’t stop moving above him, wriggling like he has ants in his designer pants, his eyes squinty and moss green as Louis blows smoke into his mouth.

“I’ve been bad,” Harry says a while later, pulling away slightly, their noses touching. His doe eyes look so innocent and his lips so pure, but there’s something about the way he clings on to Louis, something about the way his eyes are glazed and his mouth exhaling dark. “I’ve been so bad, Daddy. Let me make it up to you— _please_.”

This moment—with Harry looking down at him, his curls falling into his face, blinking slowly—he wants to live in it forever, record it, and play it back, play it back, play it back. He doesn’t feel worthy. “Yeah, baby?” His voice is raspy, nothing to do with the smoke in his lungs. “And how are you going to do that?”

Harry doesn’t speak, grabbing the roach and crawling off the bed. Money slides off him and onto the floor as he stands on wobbly legs, dropping the roach onto the ashtray on Louis’ nightstand. He stands to the side of the bed, removing his McQueen jacket and throwing it on the chaise. His hips sway with the beat of the sensual song from the _L_ playlist that’s been feeding them background noise.

A small, gold tube on the nightstand catches Louis’ attention and he snatches it, before retuning his hawk-like gaze onto his boyfriend. Said boyfriend is using his pale fingers to undo the buttons of his black dress shirt, Louis’ heart is beating faster as more and more peaches and cream skin is revealed. Harry doesn’t stop moving, closing his eyes and moving his body to The Weeknd, removing his shirt and throwing it carelessly beside the jacket.

The pants are next, and while there’s nothing incredibly sexy about Harry stepping out of them, Louis knows that his baby is willing to do anything to _make it up_ to him, and anticipation has him hard in his dress pants. Harry’s down to a pair of black, lace panties, his skin glowing under the lights, with the bright illuminations from the city dancing across his torso.

“Come to me.”

Harry would’ve stayed there all night, bare and exposed, hands hanging to the side, if Louis hadn’t called him over. Harry’s a good boy like that, he knows, but sometimes Louis has more fun when Harry’s being a little naughty. Louis twists until he’s sat on the edge of the bed again, Harry standing in front of him. He moves his eyes across every inch of Harry’s body, every dip, every crevice, every little freckle—all branded into his memory. The boy flushes under Louis’ searing gaze.

“On your knees,” he orders with a gentle tone, watching in slight amazement as Harry does just so, dropping to the fur rug without the slightest hesitation. His ankles cross, pink toenails digging into the white fluff. Louis pushes Harry’s hands back when they make a go for his belt, tugging on loose curls until green eyes blink back at him. “You look pretty like this, baby. Always so pretty.”

“Thank you, Daddy,” Harry replies sweetly. There’s something about weed that makes him even more submissive, clingier, always needing to touch Louis in some way or another. Now, his hands grip at Louis’ thighs, and the older man doesn’t have the heart to slap them away. 

Louis smiles, uncapping the golden tube— _YSL_ , he realizes, his _gattino_ ’s favorite brand. The color is a classic red, one that Harry simply calls _the rouge_ , one of Louis’ favorites on him. He doesn’t wear it as often as the pink or nude colors, but when he does—it’s a sight. Louis’ application is a bit messy, as he holds Harry’s chin with one hand and paints his lips carefully with the other, taking his time like he’s got the next _Starry Night_ in between his hands. He gets a smudge of the color below Harry’s bottom lip, licking his thumb and rubbing it off. 

Harry chases his finger, giving his thumb little kitten licks before taking it in his mouth, his cheeks hallowing as he sucks on it, biting down on the knuckle. Louis removes his digit, earning him a whine; he knows how much Harry loves the feeling of being full. Before he can chide him for being a greedy boy, Harry takes his hand, slipping Louis’ middle and ring finger back into the warmth of his mouth, swallowing them so deep, Louis can feel the back of his throat, the _28_ on his fingers disappearing.

“Harry…,” Louis cautions, yanking his wet fingers out. A string of spit between them breaks and the boy on his knees whimpers. Harry clutches the fabric over Louis’ thighs with urgency, looking up at him expectantly. “What do you want, huh, baby? So impatient, aren’t you, angel? So greedy.”

“You’re still dressed,” Harry mumbles. He bites down on his lip, fingers twitching where they settle on Louis. “Can I—can I?”

“You want me to undress?”

Harry nods furiously, leaning back on his legs. He looks up with eyes so wide and glassy, his face so open and trusting and willing, that Louis wants to give it to him. Wants to give _everything_ to him. Whatever Harry’s heart desires—millions, diamonds, custom Gucci, vintage cars—

“Your cock,” Harry says. He licks his lips and Louis follows the quick movement. “I really—I want your cock. Fuck my mouth, please, Lou, _please_.”

Does Harry deserve it? There’s a desperation in the tinge of his boy’s voice that thrills him and as much as he wants to give into Harry’s each and every wish, he doesn’t. He lazily trails a finger across the painted red of Harry’s lips, feeling the silky texture against the roughness of his finger pad, and knows the longer he waits, the more desperate Harry will become. More than anything, he wants to punish him for how badly he’s behaved lately, make him beg for Louis’ forgiveness.

 “No,” he states after a few ticks of silence. He watches as Harry’s eyes widen and his mouth sets into a disbelieving pout. “I don’t think I will.”

“But, I—why?” Harry gapes. “I’ll be good, Daddy, I promise. I promise I’ll make it up to you, I do!”

To Louis’ shock, his favorite green eyes begin to fill with tears. Crying during sex isn’t unusual, especially when Harry’s _gone_ and desperate to orgasm for the third time that night, but this. This is something else. He hasn’t even touched Harry, and hasn’t allowed Harry to touch him, and already the boy is tearing up at being denied. Louis’ gone and created a spoiled boy, one who is used to getting everything he wants.

He looks away from bleary, beautiful eyes and puts too much concentration on the small buttons of his shirt; his nimble fingers working them slowly. He doesn’t pay any mind to the princess at his feet, doesn’t shift his gaze when Harry whines, or shuffles impatiently against the white fur, his knees probably aching. Louis hears a sniffle, and he’s sure tomorrow there’ll be Harry-shaped finger prints on his thighs in mauve colors.

“ _Daddy_ ,” cries Harry. “Please don’t ignore me!”

“You don’t like to be ignored, do you, _bello_?” His voice is stern and he sees the moment realization settles on Harry. Harry shakes his head guiltily, curls falling into his eyes, his bare chest heaving. _God_ , Louis wants to fuck him. He wants to destroy him and punish him, get his ass red and hot to the touch, bruise the inside of Harry’s pale thighs with his teeth; he wants to make him feel it in the morning and the days that follow it.

He doesn’t want Harry to ever forget.

“I-I don’t.” Is Harry’s soft reply. “I’m sorry, Daddy, ‘m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that; I shouldn’t have ignored you like that.”

Louis hums offhandedly, neither denying or accepting the wet apology. He leans back on his elbows with his shirt splayed open, green dollar bills rustling underneath him, and stares wordlessly at Harry. The boy with the wild curls swallows, round eyes flitting back and forth from Louis’ face to his tight abdomen, shuffling between Louis’ legs. He knows his boy, knows that the possibility of Harry not being hard in his panties is slim to none, and he knows how impatient Harry can be; eager to get his hands on Louis’ body, Louis’ cock, and be full with him.

The moment is tense and much too silent, and Louis only watches with a blank expression as Harry nervously releases and tightens his grip on his cloth covered thighs, almost afraid to let go should he sink. Harry’s mouth opens and closes, too, painted pretty and red like a Valentine’s Day heart.

“I _hurt_ , Daddy.” Harry’s still on his knees, his head bowed down like he’s about to confess his sins and ask for forgiveness. “Please,” he repeats for the hundredth time. “Please, I can be good for you. I can be your good boy.”

Louis’ stare only manages to become more intense. He’s got an angel in front of him, someone who _he_ should’ve gotten on his knees and prayed for, if he’s being honest. With falling ringlets on his shoulder and skin made from silk, Harry’s pure, crafted from marble. Harry’s the fairest person Louis’ ever touched, but he wouldn’t be Louis fucking Tomlinson if he didn’t want to _wreck_ Harry; make him sob and scream and cry out God’s name in vain for a release only Louis can give him.

“I don’t believe you,” Louis declares. He stands then, Harry shuffling backwards with a start, his sweaty hands slipping off Louis’ legs. He stares down at him, remembers a time in the beginning of their relationship when he refused to let Harry down on his knees for him, and now look at them. Harry looks beautiful on his knees; how could he have denied him that once? “I don’t think you can be my good boy anymore; I don’t even think you _want_ to be.”

Harry looks flabbergasted, startled silent by the words coming out his boyfriend’s mouth, before he starts blabbering. “Daddy, I—how can you think that? Of course I-I do. I’m so proud to be yours, Lou. I always want to be your good boy. I didn’t mean to—”

“Good boys aren’t greedy. They don’t touch if I don’t give them permission.” He shoots a heated glance at Harry’s hands, where they’re wrapped around his thighs again, and Harry gulps, letting go immediately, as if he felt the burn of his elder’s glare. “They don’t ignore me, and they certainly listen to what I say.”

Harry nods frantically, his blunt nails digging into his naked thighs. He’s leaking, his rosy-tipped dick wet and soaking through the black La Perla lace, peaking out over top. “I’m sorry, ‘m sorry, I’ll listen, I will. Please, let me show you how good I can be, Daddy.”

Louis doesn’t reply, instead undoes his belt and lets his slacks fall around his ankles. He rolls down his boxers, his dick slapping thick and fat against his stomach, kicking his underwear down to his feet. He feels Harry’s hungry gaze on him—a chill traveling down Louis’ spine in result—and watches as Harry’s hands purchase fistfuls of the fur rug to keep them from reaching out.

“Get on the bed,” he orders, watching in satisfaction as his boy does just so, scrambling from the floor and climbing onto the bed. Harry sits on his feet, surrounded by a pool of money, his hands trembling slightly as they rest against his thighs. “Lie down and prop up a pillow underneath your head.”

Harry rushes to grab a set of pillows, the round, smooth skin of his ass jiggling with his movement. Louis wants to grab him by the waist and pull him back, hold Harry’s face against the mattress, and eat him out until he’s a wet, hot mess, until his tears and sweat ruin the money underneath him. Harry doesn’t give him the chance, moving quickly across the mattress before spreading his limbs out and shuddering.

“What else, Daddy?”

Louis moves, slowly, surely, his legs caging Harry’s body. He moves up the boy, straddling his legs, making sure to move like a ghost above Harry’s groin and stomach, not giving his boy the pleasure of feeling Louis’ skin on his. He stops only when his thighs are above Harry’s neck and the eighteen-year-old is blinking hazily up at him, his mouth open, small, quiet huffs leaving him.

Louis grabs the base of his dick and carefully lowers himself down, trailing his head around the corner of Harry’s mouth and across the arrow of his cupid’s bow. Harry whines, then, his hands curling around a few hundred dollar bills as he fights the urge to grab onto Louis’ ass and be the naughty boy he truly is. Louis teases him, taking his sensitive tip and dragging it across those rose red lips, letting Harry’s tongue peak out and lick him like a kitten, but never letting him wrap his lips around him.

“ _Daddy_ —“

Louis pulls his cock back abruptly and slaps it against Harry’s flushed cheek, the fidgety teenager mewling instantly. Louis does it again, this time slapping it against Harry’s mouth, biting back a moan when Harry opens up and sticks his tongue out, wet and warm against Louis’ dick. He lets it sit on his tongue for a few seconds, but then Harry starts to whine again, proper little spoiled princess that he is, and Louis had it with him.

He pushes forward and snaps his hip down, his fat cock filling Harry’s mouth, suddenly surrounded by warm velvet and a talented tongue. Harry jerks—his eyes cloudy and wet as they fill up with tears again, lashes clumped together in spikes—as he relaxes his throat. Louis can feel the slight bobbing of it around his dick as he gently continues to push in until he hits the back of Harry’s throat.

“You’re a liar, Harry,” Louis accuses. He pulls out until only his swollen head is hidden behind Harry’s lips, before shoving back in. He knows how badly his baby gags for his dick, how badly his dick throbs at being _full_ of Louis. “You promised you’d be a good boy—you’ve been everything but.”

He watches the way Harry’s eyes squeeze shut, fresh tears rolling down his ruddy cheeks. Louis loves the way his princess looks when he cries, loves the way his nose turns pink and his lashes black, loves the way his tears look so delicate like diamond drops. He looks so fucking pretty when he cries. He pulls out after a few seconds of twitching in his mouth and feeling Harry’s legs kick behind him.

Harry swallows a breath full of air, spit dribbling down his chin. He has red lipstick smeared on his chin and cheeks, but that doesn’t stop him from twisting his neck until he can reach Louis’ balls, planting kisses on them before suckling them into his mouth. He plays with them, looking blissed out as he sighs happily, before peppering kisses on Louis’ base, leaving red _YSL_ caresses behind when Louis pushes him back down on the pillow.

“What’s your color?”

“G-green,” he replies, his voice raspy like sandpaper and deeper than usual.

Louis wastes no time, climbing closer to Harry’s dirty face, and pushing his cock between willing lips. His gattino takes and takes until Louis has his balls pressed tightly against his mouth and Harry’s nose nestled in light curls. He swallows, gagging only slightly, and Louis has to close his eyes as bliss takes over, feeling the slick sensation that is Harry’s tongue underneath the heavy weight of his cock.

“F-fuck,” he cries lowly. His heart is thundering in his chest, Harry is burning underneath him—flushed and heaving, nipples pebbled even with no attention—when he begins to bounce, using his calves to level up and down in short, rapt motions. His heavy balls hit Harry’s face each time he lowers back down, and he can’t stop himself from wrapping a hand around Harry’s white neck and squeezing, feeling the way his dick lodges in his throat.

“Ignore me, again, Harry,” Louis growls. He curses loudly; his boyfriend’s flicking his tongue in the right spot. His hand is still around Harry’s neck, feeling the bulge every time he fucks back down. He’s more than certain there’ll be marks tomorrow and, knowing the curly haired brat, Harry’ll be thrilled. “C’mon, princess,” he taunts. “Do it, ignore me again.”

Harry hums brokenly, looking up at him from behind half-hooded lids. His hands are clenched around wrinkled bills, trembling, but it’s not enough for Louis. Harry’s nowhere _near_ wrecked. He’s nowhere near as gone as Louis knows he can get and has gotten him there before.

He pulls back, slapping the boy’s mouth with his angry, red cock a few more times, completing ruining whatever was left of the makeup on his lips. Maybe, he’ll buy him something waterproof, but he rather likes his boy messy. Harry has slobber all over his chip and dripping down the sides of his cheeks, white slick of precum like lip gloss on his mouth, but he still chases after Louis’ dick after taking a big mouthful of air, ready to continue.

“I don’t think so,” Louis scowls, pushing the crying boy back onto the pillows after Harry’s failed attempt at leaning up and touching him. Louis scoots back until he can get into position, glancing down at Harry’s dick. His underwear is soaked through with cum, completely ruined, and Louis shouldn’t be surprised. He leans down, grabbing two fistfuls of the flimsy [panties](http://www.laperla.com/us/uscfilpd0019457.html) and yanking, the fabric stretching open with an audible _riiiip_ and hanging flat against Harry’s body.

“D-daddy!” Harry gasps, his eyes blinking rapidly, a little dazed and confused. “Those were three hundred dollars,” he mumbles, voice cracking, petting the Chantilly lace with a bittersweet expression.

Louis rolls his eyes and grabs the discarded fabric, balling it up, and stuffing it into Harry’s mouth before the boy can say another word. “Three hundred dollars for underwear? You’re a fucking princess, aren’t you? Spoiled rotten.”

He leans down and licks at the pool of sweat collecting at the dip of Harry’s collarbones. He makes his way down Harry’s body, licking and nipping and sucking, holding down tattooed arms so certain hands aren’t tempted to touch him. Only naughty boys touch when they’re not allowed to, and he tells Harry just that.

He makes it to the extra softness around Harry’s hips and doesn’t hesitate before sinking his teeth in, applying enough pressure that Harry jolts, his long whine hardly muffled by the designer fabric in his mouth. He sooths the angry skin with a lick and moves back up, ignoring the one area Harry is writhing to be touched at.  

In one swift movement, Louis flips them around so Harry’s face is pushed against the mattress and his ass is propped up in the air, the chill of the room creating goosebumps on his skin. Louis steals the lube from the nightstand, when a glint of something sparkly catches his eye.

“Did you—?” He snarls as soon as he sees it; his left hand meeting his gattino’s ass cheek with a slap that echoes throughout the room. The only thing louder is Harry’s subdued sob, an outburst that quivers through his body. The boy begins to cry and they both know Harry will have trouble breathing if he doesn’t settle down, but, in this case, that’ll just rile him up further. “I can’t believe you did this.”

Harry grumbles and Louis reaches down and grabs his curls, pulling his head back until they’re eye-to-eye. His other hand wanders, applying pressure to the Swarovski crystal keeping Harry open, feeling the instant toll it takes on Harry’s body. _This_ is what he was doing when he left the room, Louis realizes.

“This is so fucking _bad_ ,” he glowers.  “I can’t believe you pulled this stunt and _lied_ to me. What happened to being a good boy, huh?” Harry can only blink owlishly at him and Louis hums disapprovingly. “Going to ignore me, again, are you?”

He lets go of Harry, pushing him back down towards the mattress and gravitates towards the sneaky, little crystal plug. It’s looks beautiful, glittering against delicate, pink skin, nestled tightly in his princess’ hole, but Louis wants it out. Harry went against their spoken rules, the naughty, little minx, and he won’t stand for it. He can’t help but give himself a few tugs, searing to the touch, surprised at how long he’s lasted with his baby spread out and whimpering before him.

He grabs onto the crystal base of the plug, his mouth going dry as the bulbous toy slides out slowly, wet. Harry whines lowly, his back arching. His pink hole is empty now, rosy and fluttering, begging to clench around anything. Louis can’t help his smile, tossing the toy to the side and sitting back. He has to wait less a minute for Harry to catch up, the boy whining and shaking his ass, before glancing warily behind at Louis.

“Yes, Harry?” Harry wails, scooting backwards and presenting his sore cheeks to his Daddy. His eyes are big and begging, and Louis laughs dryly. “What? You need my help now?”

Harry nods, humming.

“That’s too bad, isn’t it? You seem to have been able to do everything by yourself. Against my orders, of course.” Louis makes a noise of discontent, his dick twitching as Harry’s puckered hole flutters. “You touch yourself when you’re not supposed to, play with your toys, and _come_ without my permission.”

Harry blubbers, slumping down against the mattress, in a sweaty, pathetic mess. He looks so upset, Louis almost feels sorry for him—almost. He grabs him by the curls, yanking him upwards until Louis is pushing up against his back, his arm hooking around Harry’s neck, his forearm pushed him snugly against his boy’s jugular. With his other hand, he yanks the ripped panties from Harry’s mouth, and leans down to whisper in his ear.

“Beg for it.”

“D-daddy!” Harry yowls, his voice breaking as he sobs.  He lets his weight fall on Louis, whimpering as Louis’ dick nestles in between his cheeks. Louis thrusts upwards, his dick wet and sliding easily with a mixture of precum and lube from Harry’s plug. “Oh, p-please! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, _please!”_

Louis lies down and grabs onto Harry’s waist, helping the boy turn over and straddle him with shaky legs. Louis’ dick heavy between them and he hisses once he gets a hand around himself, spreading a generous amount of lube. He reaches behind Harry with lubed up fingers, but the impatient boy stops him.

“N-no! I-I’m okay, I’m good.”

“Harry,” he warns.

Harry blushes, a soft dawn red spreading to his chest. “I like it, I like it _a lot_.”

“What do you like, baby?” He lifts his suddenly coy gattino until he’s sitting on Louis’ stomach, his dick slapping against Harry’s ass. “Tell me.”

“I-I like it when it hurts,” Harry confesses. “I love the pain, _fuck_ , and—and I love being able to feel you for days. I sit at school and I’m, I’m reminded of how my daddy takes care of me. I love it, Daddy.”

Louis’ lower half twitches, sweat trickling above his brow. “You always get what you want, don’t you? Spoiled little brat. Daddy does take care of you so well, doesn’t he?” He slaps a blossom-pink cheek and gives his boy an expectant look. “Well, what are you waiting for? Get to work.”

“Y-yes, Daddy.” Harry nods urgently, going to lift himself up, before Louis grabs his chin, pressing their lips together in a filthy kiss. Louis’ fingers squeeze soft hips, refusing to let him move, his dick rubbing between handprint-clad cheeks. “Please, I— _fuck_!” They both groan as the head of Louis’ dick catches across Harry’s rim.

Louis lets him go and rests back on his elbows. His breath stutters as he watches the art before him, his boy spreading himself open as he sinks down Louis’ cock, his lashes fluttering as he hisses, Louis tearing him apart in the way he loves the most. Harry is slow in his movements, needy, little huffs of air leaving his parted lips as he bottoms out, fingernails biting into Louis’ chest.

“Fuck, baby, yes,” he hisses, grabbing onto Harry’s hips. He has to restrain himself from snapping his hips up and fucking into him, has to remember that Harry has to work for it. Harry hasn’t forgotten as he balances himself, his hands leaving trails of fire as he slides them from Louis’ shoulders, to graze at his nipples, to settle on his chest, his hips still as he takes time to adjust. “Good boy,” he murmurs.

 “Thank you, thank you, th—god!” Harry curses, squeezing his eyes shut as he starts to rolls his hips with intent, Louis’ dick snuggled deeply in him, splitting him open with every movement he makes. He loves it, they both know it, loves the way Harry’s hole struggles to take Louis with only the stretch of two fingers.

“You feel so good, feel so—so amazing. You’re so tight, baby.” He groans as a wave of warmth washes over him. Harry springs up until only Louis’ tip remains inside of him, dragging on the rim, and suddenly he’s slamming back down, a wrecked sob shaking his body. Louis’ blunt nails pressing into the chub on his hips, as Harry does it again and again, sinking, sinking, sinking.

Louis knows when he hits it the first time, his cock curved up into Harry as the boy’s eyes flash open and his back arches. Harry falls forward, panting, their sweaty chests pressed tightly together as he continues to bounce, tiring himself on his Daddy’s dick. Louis wraps his arms around Harry’s back, the pool of heat in the pit of his stomach getting deeper and deeper with every little _ah ah ah_ that escapes Harry.

“P-please, I—I need you.” Harry slumps forward, hiding his flushed face in the crook of Louis’ neck. “I’ve been good, I’ve, _god_ , been good for you, Daddy.” He continues to circle his hips, moving all of his lithe body with the movement, winded.

“Tired, baby?” Louis grunts, pulling Harry back to look at him. Harry doesn’t stop rolling his hips, even as he slows down, Louis’ dick hitting his prostate with every bounce.

He whines, “Daddy—oh, fuck!”

Louis snaps his hips up, his eyes rolling backwards as Harry clenches around him, hot and tight. “Harry, baby,” he chants, his voice rough and wanting. He fucks up into Harry with no mercy, his boy slumped forward as he takes it, his nails drawing blood on Louis’ shoulder as his body jolts back and forth like a ragdoll. He pulls them in for a kiss, their teeth hitting as Harry sobs above him, Louis abusing his prostate.

“Look at you, baby, _look_ at you,” he breathes in awe.

Harry’s dick in sandwiched between them, blurting precome, and Louis knows it won’t be long before Harry starts to beg and sputter for permission. He squeezes Harry’s cheeks as he starts to slow down, thrusting in and out gradually, pulling halfway out only to slam back in.

“So close, so close, please! Please, Lou—I’m so full, Daddy, I— _nngh_!” Harry whines, pleasantly startled as Louis stuffs three fingers in his mouth. Harry licks and sucks and bites, his eyes wild and glassy with unshed tears.

“You close, princess? Gonna come for me?” Louis speeds up, his cock pounding into him as Harry splutters around his fingers with a desperate cry. “You’re gonna be a good boy and come when I s-say?”

His good boy shakes his head manically, struggling to speak around Louis’ fingers. He starts following Louis’ thrusts again, his ass meeting Louis’ thighs, eyes fighting to stay open, as he begins to bounce again, eager to get permission. Long, matted curls fall into his eyes and Louis pulls his fingers out to twist at puffy, pink nipples. Harry howls, his back arching as he thrusts his chest forward, begging for more.

“Come for me, baby, c’mon. Be a good boy—“

“Daddy—!” Harry’s cry is cut short as he freezes above Louis, his body trembling as he comes, his breath stuttering as he spills onto Louis’ stomach. His torso shakes as he collapses forward onto his boyfriend’s sweaty chest, curling into him instantly as Louis keepings pounding into his ass with sharp snaps of his hips. Harry’s in nirvana, sparklers behind his eyelids; riding the waves of his climax with lazy rolls of his hips.

Louis’ not too far behind, using his boy’s body as he chases the beginnings of his own orgasm. He feels his balls tighten, his dick still engulfed by sweet heat as he groans, ready to—

“’m face,” Harry groans in his ear. The spent boy pulls back with a lazy, pliant grin and blinks. “On my face, please, Daddy,” he suggests politely.

“ _Fuck_.” Louis pulls out gently, not missing Harry’s soft flinch, and flips them over to straddle his chest like he did earlier, when he was fucking his angel’s face. His eyes rake over every square inch of natural beauty, reaching down to pull on himself in haste. Sharp jaw, wet lashes, glazed eyes, creamy skin, lips— _lips_. He grips himself tighter, tugging once, twice, before white spots take over his vision and he’s coming, shooting ropes of white over Harry’s puffy, red lips.

When his hips finally stutter to a slow stop and his heart settles down, he opens his eyes, and his breath catches in his throat. Harry’s got his pink tongue out, lapping up Louis’ come with a giggle. Louis’ silent, watching as his spoiled gattino uses his thumb to wipe off Louis’ load and sticks it into his mouth, moaning in soft content.

“Jesus, fuck, Harry,” he curses, dropping down to mesh their lips together. He wrinkles his nose at his taste, but doesn’t pull away from their lazy, wet kiss. “Are you okay?” asks Louis after their kisses come to a stop with soft pecks. “I—was it too much?”

“No,” Harry replies softly after a few long beats, snuggling closer. They’re both sticky, come drying on their skin, but Louis doesn’t have the heart to move away. “It was… perfect. I didn’t know—I didn’t know I… needed it.”

He chuckles, pressing a kiss to the top of Harry’s tangled curls. A few minutes pass and Louis almost believes his boy’s fallen asleep, before Harry shuffles and presses his mouth to his collarbones. “I’m sorry,” he mutters.

“For what?” Harry asks just as quietly.

Louis shakes his head, dropping the subject. It wouldn’t be fair to try and have a somewhat important conversation when Harry’s not all there. He kisses curls again, eyes slipping shut. “Let’s take a nap, baby. We’ll talk later.”

“’Kay,” Harry mumbles. He sighs happily, his breathing becoming even in seconds.

“Love you,” he whispers, before sleep overtakes him, too.

 

When he wakes up the first time, Harry is dead to the world, snoring lightly with his curls mussed out on a pillow. The sky is the perfect, black backdrop for the tall, luminous buildings of Chicago. Louis smiles and detangles himself from long limbs, reaching into the nightstand for wet wipes. He’s careful not to wake up sleeping beauty beside him, cleaning up Harry’s face and wiping down his own belly, too.

He turns his phone on, bothered to see so many missed calls from Liam. Sighing, he unlocks it and calls his brother back, both times getting Liam’s cheery tone on voicemail. He calls Zayn, too, for good measure, but it goes straight to voicemail. Sighing he slumps back in bed.

Louis doesn’t know how Sophia’s death has now affected Liam and Zayn’s relationship, and if he’s being honest, he doesn’t even want to think about it. He’s selfish, but he needs to figure out his shit with Harry, before worrying about someone else’s relationship. Besides, what could he even do for them? Offer them _relationship advice_? _As if_ , he thinks.

He settles back in bed, turning to press up against Harry’s back, Harry’s curls tickling his nose. _Now this_ , this is nice. This is perfect.

 

The second time he awakes, he panics. He couldn’t have slept for more than a couple of hours, but Harry’s not next to him anymore. The bed where he lied is warm, but empty, and it causes something to tighten in Louis’ chest—the exact same feeling he got on the plane, in his mother’s car on the way to the Tomlinson Estate. It’s _fear_ —fear, out of all fucking things. He swallows tightly, kicking the sheets off his feet with struggle, money they completely ruined falling to the floor in dozens, his heart seeming too loud in his chest—

“Louis?”

His head snaps up, and there he is. Harry’s there, concern sketched on his face from where he stands in his unabashed, naked glory by the wall. Louis hardly notices the sunrise behind his boy (seemingly boring shades of amber and violet when they’re next to Harry) before he’s heaving off the bed and speeding towards him, wrapping his arms around Harry, smooth skin under his calloused palms.

“Hi,” he answers, pressing his forehead against Harry’s.

“Hi,” Harry replies with an unsure smile. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah, I just.” Louis glances back at their rumpled bed, the anxiety of Harry not being there, next to him, when he woke up comes crawling back at him the longer he looks. If things went differently with those fucking flowers— _no_. “Everything’s great. Good morning.” He leans in, their lips meeting. He slowly walks Harry backwards, the younger man shivering as his bare back touches the glass wall.

“Are we okay?” Harry asks softly. His hands don’t stop touching Louis’ skin; his strong shoulders, his sharp collarbones, his toned middle. Harry looks so big, somehow, pressed against the glass wall with all of Chicago behind him, below him. Louis knows, from a completely different view, his Harry would look so small.

“I can’t not be,” Louis admits. “I know this is hard, I know it feels like I’m taking your freedom away, but I don’t want that, that’s not my intention. I need you to be safe, Harry, _merda_. I can’t fuck up again, I can’t—I _can’t_. I’ve failed you so much already—“

“You won’t, Lou,” Harry interrupts. “I was so angry with you,” he confesses. “I didn’t know how to speak to you without blowing up or—or throwing fucking tofu bacon at your face.” His laugh quiets down, Louis’ fingers digging into his hips like they love to do. “And that stupid thing I said about, you know, reading the terms and conditions better, I didn’t—“

“I know,” says Louis, his turn to interrupt. “I know.”

“I made you believe like that I was questioning our relationship and I’m not. I’m not at all. I’ve never been more certain about anything, Lou.”

“I know that, too, baby.”

The world seems quiet, his unease fading away. He watches as Harry absentmindedly plays with the ring on Louis’ left finger, before pulling it off completely and slipping it onto his own left digit. The small, turquoise stones shimmer in the dim light. He smiles back at Harry, his angel leading him back towards their bed.

“It could’ve been me,” Harry whispers moments later. They’re under the covers, their legs entangled as the city wakes up outside their little, silk bubble. “With Sophia—that could’ve been me.”

“But it wasn’t,” Louis argues. “It wasn’t.”

“But—“

“And it won’t be.”

Harry nods and shuts his eyes. “’m tired.”

“Me, too, baby.” Louis watches him. He knows time passes—minutes, hours, maybe eternities—he doesn’t care. Harry falls asleep, but he can’t close his eyes or turn off his brain. His ring is still on Harry’s left finger, and it catches his eye every once in a while. He finds that he doesn’t mind really, or at all, the way his platinum ring looks on his boy. He finds that he really, really likes it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all the love. So excited to get new chapters out now! You can find me on twitter as inhalethedark. 
> 
> Until next time!


	23. Surprises and Fitzgerald

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ye this is a real honest to God update! Shocking! I know!  
> \- ALSO, this is a two part chapter!  
> \- ALSO, if you follow(ed) me on twitter and it's all kpop now.. Not sorry. Stan Seventeen  
> -ALSO ALSO idk wtf Harry has been up to or what's going on with him and I loosely stay up to date with Louis so soz if any information or whatever isn't up to date. We're going to pretend we're still in 2014 okay thank you bye 
> 
> (also let's pretend it hasn't been 3? 4? years since the last update since wkfwdf got taken down and i reuploaded and said i was going to update and....nvm)
> 
> for jazzy (its not domestic monsters soz ily tho)

* * *

 

 

 _Don't let the tall weeds cast a shadow on the beautiful flowers in your garden. - Steve Marabolli,_ Life, the Truth, and Being Free

  
 

The smile on his face is wide and genuine, as his knees hit the edge of the bed and he crawls on to the mattress, the cotton material soft on his skin. A little hint of mischievousness sneaks into Louis’ grin as he gently, light as a feather, tugs on the white material covering his boy’s naked body. The Egyptian bedsheets caress clean skin, trailing over the broad, pale of Harry’s shoulder blades, the slope of the small of his back, going over the creamy roundness of his ass.  

With a lip worked between his teeth, Louis concentrates on pulling the material as softly as possible, continuing to do so as the back of Harry’s thighs are uncovered, then down his long, clean-shaven legs, to finish beneath his feet; toes curling into the mattress at the gasp of chilly air. Louis’ eyes trail over his boyfriend’s body, lit up and curious as if it’s the first time he’s seeing this work of art, as if he doesn’t have every square inch mapped out and engraved in his mind. As if his hands and mouth haven’t worshipped and made love to every dip, every freckle, every bit that is Harry Styles. 

He’s been trying to wake Harry up from his deep slumber for a good half hour now, to no avail. Louis has done everything, from a mild tickling session—at which Harry only grumbled and quickly slid underneath the covers like a frightened turtle retrieving into its shell—to spitting (slightly) serious threats, promising to cut all the sleeves of Harry’s Gucci blouses. Harry didn’t even stir when Louis ran the expensive silk cloths over his cheeks. Now, Louis is feeling terribly impatient and a little wicked. 

He settles on his knees in the empty space between Harry’s legs, using a gentle grip to spread them further. He starts slow, simply using the pads of his fingers to trail softly up and down his boy’s back once, twice, three times, before stopping where the curve of his ass begins. He leans down slightly, nosing at Harry’s sweet skin, inhaling his natural scent. His fingers are now being replaced by his mouth, moving his lips and tongue down one cheek, teeth scraping against supple skin.  

Harry doesn’t budge, a little pool of drool dripping on to the pillow, and Louis rolls his eyes fondly. His baby must still be so tired from last night, he figures. He lets his teeth sink deeper, half expecting honey to flow into his mouth. With his teeth biting down, he starts to suck, pleasantly surprised to see goosebumps ripple over the pink flesh and a soft, happy sigh leave Harry’s mouth. He doesn’t let off until the abused area under his mouth is flushed and throbbing. 

“Harry, baby,” Louis whispers as he trails his lips further down, stop at the crevice of Harry’s ass. Carefully, he pulls him apart, revealing rosy, puckered skin. Harry’s still a little swollen from last night, sensitive as he flutters against Louis’ thumb. He traces his rim teasingly, before his thumb slides right in, Harry still beautifully open and loose from fucking himself on Louis’ cock just eight hours ago. His boy was so eager last night, begging to use Louis for his own pleasure, dropping down hard on his dick, desperate to come.  

Images of Harry bouncing on top of him, his long curls sweaty and covering his face, his mouth gasping open every time Louis would brush against his prostate, flash behind Louis’ eyelids. He hadn’t realized his eyes had fallen shut at the memories of last night, but when he opens them, he’s met with his boy’s hole, open and ready for him, and he’s quick to remove his finger and attach his lips, a slow, flat lick stroking Harry. 

The second and third licks are a harder, adding pressure behind his tongue that normally has Harry struggling to keep his whimpers at bay. Dozing Harry doesn’t offend him now, either, the boy pressing his hips against the mattress in response, a small whine leaving his throat. Louis circles his tongue around Harry’s rim, wondering if his boy is hard now, if he’s grasping the sheets in his fists. Finding out would mean separating himself, and that’s the last thing he wants to do, addicted to the natural sweetness that is Harry.  

He pushes his tongue in when Harry starts to react above him, shifting his hips and rutting against the bed, clearly still asleep as little huffs of pleasure start to fill the room. When Harry’s starts to moan a bit more recklessly, Louis’ strokes get faster, fucking him with his mouth, his face wet with what can only be described as  _Harry_. When Harry’s breath stutters, his thighs gripping tightly around Louis’ head, causing his ears to buzz, and Louis’ name comes out broken and heavy and adorably confused, he finally pulls away from between those thick thighs and grabs his boy’s waist, flipping him over.  

Louis doesn’t pause to take a breath, immediately climbing up Harry’s body to greet him with heavy, languid kiss, his spoilt boy groaning lowly as he begins tastes himself; honey being exchanged with every flick of their tongues. Louis doesn’t want to pull away, but does just that, pressing a kiss to plump lips once more before trailing back down. His mouth begins to play across Harry’s flushed chest, stopping to tease his nipples, taking his time to kiss and suck each one as Harry whines, his hands going to fist at the sheets. 

He’s in no hurry, Louis’ movements slow and easy as he scoots further back and takes the taut, tattooed skin covering Harry’s hips into his mouth, biting and suckling, before licking soothingly, moving further down when the skin has blossomed crimson. He leaves little bruises behind, little marks that he knows he’ll apologize for later, that will have Harry smiling coyly and asking him for more. He breathes warmth over Harry’s flushed dick, grinning as it twitches in response.  

Like everything else he does in life, Louis sucks dick the way  _he_  wants to. He hadn’t done it in a long time since before Harry came along, but he thinks he could do it forever with Harry. There’s something about the weight of him on Louis’ tongue, something about the way Louis’ eyes flutter shut as he tries not to touch himself and just enjoys the taste of his favorite boy, the way his thick cock slides into his mouth, beads of precum on the tip of Louis’ taste buds.  

The hearty noises spilling from Harry, the way his hand comes down and grips at Louis’ fluffy, morning hair and tugs, spurs him. Harry’s close, he knows, can read his body like a book. Harry’s fingernails dig into Louis’ shoulders, leaving half-moon indents in the tan skin as he fights himself and the urge lose control of his hips and fuck into Louis’ mouth.  

He’s tonguing at his slit, mouth stretching around Harry’s cock, his boyfriend momentarily distracted by the shockwaves rocking his body, when Louis sneakily reaches down and thrusts two fingers into him, Harry clenching around him with might, and spilling into his mouth with a broken shout, babbling incoherently.  

Louis doesn’t let off right away, catching most of Harry on his lips and tongue, but come spills out of his mouth, dribbling down his chin. Harry falls out between his lips with a soft plop, his chest heaving as he tries control his breathing, but Louis refuses to pull his fingers out. He wipes at his bottom lip before sucking his thumb into his mouth. A naughty smirk overcomes him as he works his fingers faster, adding in a third digit much to Harry’s surprise.  

“ _Fuck_ , fuck! Lou? I—?” Harry pants outs, leaning up on shaky elbows to shoot him a bewildered look. He looks spent, hair mussed and lips red, like the hours of sleep he’d gotten were in vain. He whines again, still so needy, as Louis scissors the fingers inside him. Harry’s legs start to tremble and Louis doesn’t bother hiding his smile, adding in his pinky.  

He’s met with a bit of resistance now. He could keep at it, he knows that. He could keep working his fingers in, tormenting Harry, getting him hard again. Louis could easily slip inside, they both know it, and with the way Harry’s eyes are round and lustful, his thighs still quaking, Harry  _wants_ him to. He wants to be fucked, the little devil. Despite how sensitive his cock must be, still thick and red as it lies softly, and how swollen and sticky his hole is, Harry is always up for it.  

“Louis?”  

“Are you finally awake?” Louis’ face almost becomes overwhelmed with color as he speaks for the first time, his voice slightly raspy, but nowhere as bad as Harry’s can get. His fingers are still inside his boyfriend, waiting, moving.  

Harry nods quickly, eyes owlish as he blinks. He still looks slightly perplexed, his green eyes puffy from sleep. His mouth opens and closes a few times, as if he can’t quite gather his thoughts up. “I—yeah, yeah, I am,” he replies quietly. “Did you do all of that so I could wake up?” 

Louis bites back his smile. His method worked, didn’t it? He pulls his fingers out of Harry, the younger male whining at the loss and clenching immediately around nothing. “Come here,” he orders. Harry walks on his knees to get to him, sitting with his shins underneath him. He opens his mouth wordlessly when Louis holds his fingers out, taking all four fingers into his mouth.  

He watches silently as his  _gattino_  sucks on them, taking time to wrap his tongue around each finger. Harry’s eyes fall shut as he keens, tasting himself. He licks and mews until Louis’ digits are clean, wet with spit only. He looks disappointed when Louis pulls his fingers out, but that flash of emotion is quickly replaced with hunger as he watches Louis adjust himself in his boxers. Louis' dick is outlined against his boxers, thick and wet and messy.  

“What about you?” He asks with actual concern, scooting closer. His eyes never meet Louis’, fixed on his crotch.  

“I don’t know, baby,” Louis answers, acting torn. “Are you sure you’re not asleep still?”  

“No, no!” Harry is quick to reassure him. “I’m completely awake. You  _definitely_  woke all of me up, Lou.” 

Louis smiles. “Aw, good, then.” He leans in and presses a quick kiss to a startled Harry, before pulling away completely and hopping off the bed. “Great! Now you can finally get your ass up and get dressed. We have a busy day, Harry!” He leaves Harry in bed, naked and still dazed.  

“I—but? What about you? Don’t you want me to—?” His surely pouty boyfriend calls out to him as Louis picks out his outfit in the walk-in. “Louis!” 

“I don’t think so, princess.” He walks back into the bedroom and Harry is just where he left him, and he’s pouting obscenely. He drapes his casual tee and jeans across the chaise, and makes his way over to his grumpy  _gattino_ , standing before him. “This—,” he points to the erection wanting to poke through his underwear, the very same erection that is causing him to grimace every time he so much as shifts a little, “—is your punishment.” 

Harry’s mouth plops open and his brows furrow in irritation. The whole thing is almost comical, but the soft fabric of Louis’ boxers rubbing against him makes him want to tear up instead. He needs to get into a shower, far away from Harry as fast as possible.  

“ _My_ punishment? But what the hell did I do?” His voice is full of disbelief, his eyes staring at Louis like the Mafia prince has finally lost it. Hell, he’s actually turning down a blowjob from  _Harry_ —maybe he has finally cracked. The red numbers of his alarm on the nightstand catch his eyes and he remembers that everything he has planned for today is worth a case of blue balls.  

“We’re late, Harry!” he exclaims, gathering his clothes up and hurrying the boy along. “Take a shower, get dressed. I’ll meet you downstairs, baby.” With one last kiss to Harry’s lips, he strolls out of their bedroom and down the hall to the guest room shower.  

He relaxes under the pressure of the shower head, the cold water hitting him like ice pellets. He wishes he was in the other shower— _their_  shower—underneath the warm waterfall with Harry, but he and his beautiful boy in the shower, oh, they’d never leave the house in time. He knows Harry is probably confused, and more likely than not, still tired. They only have two more days of his Thanksgiving break before it is back to college for Harry, and Louis feels slightly guilty about not letting him sleep in.  

Thanksgiving was a boisterous event filled with rich dishes, too much wine, and far too many Italians. It was fun—well, Harry had fun at least, Louis thinks. Louis came out of the dinner at the Tomlinson Estate with tightness behind his eyes and an aching stomach, but Harry left tipsy and with his iPhone notes filled with classic Tomlinson recipes. It was a good night, overall, Louis will admit. Another day proving just how well Harry jibes with his family, how good he is with his little sisters, how he somehow manages to make even Johannah crack a smile.  

Thanksgiving dinner, surrounded by family and close friends came at the perfect time. Things were tense—much too tense—in the Tomlinson household and in Louis and Harry’s penthouse after the toxic flowers incident. No one said it to his face, but Louis know he went over the edge and over again. Harry tried to be as understanding as possible—which is crazy, considering he was the one who was directly targeted—when Louis would stay out all night, searching high and low for some sort of clue to lead him to whoever sent the flowers. He would come home empty-handed and angry, and Harry was always there, ready to try his best to make Louis feel better.  

He knows now that he should’ve spent those nights in bed with Harry, instead of leaving the poor boy alone in an empty apartment to worry until the sun came up. Things were difficult between them after Harry moved in. Harry promises that he understands why Louis has to go to great lengths to keep him safe, and Louis believes him, he truly does, but they both know Harry wasn’t jumping for joy at moving in under these conditions, and he isn’t content about having Bates the bodyguard walking him to his classes and keeping an eye on him at all time.  

Thankfully, things after Thanksgiving dinner with the family just clicked into place. Harry, tipsy on vintage Merlot and with a brilliant beam on his face, gave him an earth-shattering kiss and whispered, “ _Take me home._ ” Remembering the way his lips had caressed Louis’ jaw has goosebumps running across his arms.  

After that, there was more kissing. More sex. More intimacy. More trust. These last few days have been close to perfection, but Louis wants to take them there.  

Harry is waiting for him in the kitchen, sitting at the island with a glass of OJ in front of him, in an electric blue Burberry knit sweater that Louis knows he nicked out of his closet. He raises in eyebrow at him when he walks in. “You’re being weird today,” he blurts out, hiding behind his piece of toast. 

“Am I?” Louis chuckles and goes to take out a mug. “What makes you say that?” 

“There’s no coffee,” Harry mentions, mid-chew, causing Louis to pause and return the mug to its spot in the cabinet. “I put it on the list,” he says before Louis can open his mouth to ask.  

It didn’t take Harry long to get comfortable in the penthouse, and Louis’ thankful for that. He was wary at first, unsure if he would be able to handle living with someone, having them in his space and in his things for long periods of time. It also didn’t take long for Louis to realize that it was  _Harry_ , not some random person. Harry who cleans up after himself and fits into his routine seamlessly and is always there, sweet and warm, in the mornings. It’s all just very…domestic.  

“You’re very happy today,” Harry notices. His eyes squint suspiciously. “Is there something I should know? What are you up to, Tomlinson?”  

Louis rolls his eyes, but can’t stop that smile that spreads over his lips. Oh,  _Santo Cielo_ , Harry makes him so damn soft. It’s ridiculous. “You’re paranoid, Styles.” 

“I’m cautious!” Harry argues, dropping the rest of his uneaten toast on the plate. “Just tell me what you’re up to so I won’t wreck my head trying to figure it out. Please?” 

“Fine, you big baby,” he teases. He goes around the island, stopping in front of where Harry is sitting on a stool. He nudges his legs apart and goes to stand in between them, greedy hands on denim-clad thighs. For some reason, he has trouble saying exactly what is on his mind. “I just want to go out and have a good time. You know, kind of make it up to you? For the way I behaved.” 

“You could,  _you know_ , just say that you’re sorry,” Harry replies, his smile slight and ribbing. 

“Yeah, but.” He  _has_  said sorry, is the thing, and it felt great to have said it out loud. Maybe the only flaws were that Harry was asleep at that time and Louis still struggles to choke the word up with green eyes piercing him. He can’t even say it to his face—that’s how ashamed Louis feels of his behavior, of his attitude, of the fact that he can’t say a simple, five letter word when Harry needs to hear it the most.  

Harry’s eyes go soft instantly and he wraps him up in a tight hug, snuggling his face into Louis’ neck. “Louis…You know you don’t have to make anything up to me. I know things got a little difficult there, with everything that happened, but me and you? We’re okay, babe, great even. You don’t have to say—or  _do_ —anything.” 

He feels lips kiss caress neck and Louis sighs in content, warmth spreading to the places Harry touches. “You let me off too easily. But please just—let me do this okay?” 

Harry pulls back and looks at him. He looks and looks with an intensity in his mint green eyes that almost makes Louis want to hide. He doesn’t know what his boy is looking for, or if he even finds it, but whatever it is, Harry seems satisfied, grinning a smile so big that it takes over his face, lit up from the inside out, before nodding. He presses a kiss to Louis’ lips. “Coffee first, you hear me?” 

He helps Harry into a Saint Laurent silk bomber, Harry thanking him with a kiss, and grabbing his hand as they go down in the elevator. Louis dodges every question thrown at him about their plans for the day. The drive to Starbucks is mostly the same, Harry’s peppy chatter filling the car with Louis more than happy to listen. They’re fixing their coffee, Harry adding too much sugar and cream as usual, when the boy goes unusually quiet.  

“Baby?” Louis can practically see the wheels turning in his boyfriend’s head. “What’s got you thinking so hard?” 

“Why didn’t you let me suck you?” Harry blurts out, much too loudly for the small coffee shop. Heads turn their way and Harry ducks his, pink coloring his cheeks. “This morning,” he mutters, his voice lower. “Why didn’t you?” 

“Today’s about you,” Louis explains, shrugging. He blindly grabs Harry’s hand and leads them out of the coffee chain, and back into the car. He isn’t asked anymore questions after that, but he knows they’re on the tip of Harry’s tongue. He settles his hand on Harry’s thigh as he drives, skyscrapers and traffic becoming Victorian mansions and green landscapes as they leave Chicago and enter a quaint, lake town a couple hours outside the city.  

“It’s so pretty here,” Harry says in awe. His eyes light up as they pass a group of children stomping on the fallen, autumn leaves. His smile gets wider as he sees the small parade of autumn-themed floats passing by, children in red, orange, and brown costumes sing and dancing as they march, gap-toothed grins taking up half their small faces. “What’s going on?” he questions, his laughter bubbly and contagious.  

“It’s the annual Autumn Parade, where they celebrate the ending of autumn and the coming of winter,” he explains. He drives slowly through the town, mindful of the children. “We used to come here every year, fuck,  _I_ participated in it a couple times,” he adds. 

Harry whips his head around to question him. “ _You_? In a parade, with screaming kids and costumes and Disney songs? I don’t believe it!”  

“Believe it,” Louis mumbles dryly. “That—,” he points to a passing white, two story, modern Victorian at the end of the street, “—was our summer house for a few years. The girls loved it here. Johannah made Zayn, Liam, and I hold Lottie and Fizzy’s hands while they walked the parade. The twins were obsessed with getting their autumn fairy costumes, too.”  

“Aw,” Harry coos. He playfully reaches out to pinch Louis’ cheek. “Weren’t you just such a good, big brother?” Louis scowls at him and he laughs in response. “It’s lovely out here. Reminds me a little bit of Boston. It’s gorgeous.” 

“Suppose so.” Louis shrugs, disinterested. Small towns always seem so fake to him. There’s something real about the city, about the throngs of people from all different backgrounds, going their own ways. Here, in the suburbs, in such small, tight-knit communities, everyone knows each other and  _about_  each other. It’s no wonder his family didn’t stay very long.  

They drive away from the parade, a few minutes from the center of the town, until they’re on the dirt backroads of Illinois. Louis parks the Aston Martin in a packed, makeshift parking lot in front of a large, rustic, red barn highlighted by a few acres of trees. Louis goes to unbuckled his seatbelt, startled as the passenger door slams shut, Harry already out of the car and eager to explore.  

“Is this an orchard?” Harry’s eyes take everything in, from the ancient barn, to the stacks upon stacks of wicker baskets waiting for them at the entrance of the building. He doesn’t wait for an answer, taking it upon himself to walk ahead and snatch a basket up. They go through the barn to get to the rows and rows of apple trees, and Harry immediately gets to searching for the perfect honeycrisp.  

Louis has his own fun, kicking fallen apples into imaginary goal posts. He watches in amusement as Harry picks through the apples, rambling on about pies. He wasn’t expecting him to be this excited, after all they’re just trees with fruits, but Harry’s smiling as he turns each apple around in his hands, making sure it’s sweet and firm. It’s almost the end of the season, so the remaining collection isn’t the best, but somehow Harry manages to find plenty shiny, round apples.  

“Mom, Gemma, and I used to make a whole day of going pumpkin hunting,” Harry mentions. “We’d pick out a few pumpkins, some for pies and some to make into jack o’ lanterns.” He looks up at an outlandishly tall tree, squinting against the sun, as he stands on the tippy toes of his boots. “Gemma always carved the scary pumpkins,” he reminisces, “but mine never came out as good. I wasn’t very good with the knives.”  

“I was the  _best_  with the knives,” Louis admits, an impish grin making his eyes crinkle.  

“Shocking! Did you make the best jack o’ lanterns?”  

“No, actually.” Louis’ smile falls the tiniest amount. He shrugs, turning back to the fallen apples, kicking them one by one so that they go rolling under the trees. “I never did that as kid. I never did the whole trick-o-treating and decorating pumpkins thing.” He can tell Harry wants to press on the subject, but his boy just nods and moves along to the next tree.  

“I think I’ve got at least two pies from these,” Harry discloses, looking down at the apples in his basket. “Did you know I was a baker?” 

“Were you?” Louis bites down on bottom lip, willing the overly fond smile that is threatening to appear to vanish. Liam says that smile—his  _Harry_ smile—makes him look like a lovesick fool, and hey, Louis is not terribly mad at that title, he just hates that it was fucking Liam that commented on it first. “A baker, huh?” 

He listens intently as Harry recalls the mom and pop bakery he worked at all through high school, about the ladies with the salt and pepper hair who would pinch his butt and insist he take the leftover red velvet cake home to his family. Louis listens just as carefully as he did the first time, and the second time, too. He’ll listen as long as Harry is willing to share that story, and every other little detail about who he was before he moved to Chicago.  

“I want those apples.” Harry pouts and it takes Louis a second to realize they’ve made their way back to the abnormally tall tree, with the perfect bundle of pretty reds near the top. “D’you think there’s a ladder around here?” 

“That’ll take too long,” Louis guesses. He kneels down, leaning his head down, and patting himself on the shoulder. “Here, climb up.”  

They can both hear the quiet hesitancy in Harry. “Are—are you sure? I don’t want to hurt you, Lou.” 

“Baby,” Louis deadpans. “I hold you up against a very wet and incredibly slippery shower wall all the time, and you’ve never fallen, nor have I gotten hurt. This is hardly any different.” 

“This is a lot different,” Harry mutters beneath his breath. It’s a few more seconds before Louis feels Harry’s weight settle on his shoulders, his thighs gripping the sides of Louis’ face tight enough to almost hurt, and really, it’s not that different. Louis stands steadily, lifting the boy so he’s an arm’s length way from the apple group. “Did you come here as a kid?” 

“Every year,” Louis answers. “My, uh, dad he would take a day off from the business and we’d make a day out of it. Whatever day we’d come here and Christmas—those were probably the only times I saw him.” He struggles to stop resentment from leaking into his tone. “I think maybe if he hadn’t died and I had joined the business sooner or something—I think we would have at least known each other.” 

“Do you miss him?” Harry asks him softly.  

Louis pauses before answering truthfully, “No. No, I don’t.” He doesn’t believe you can miss someone you didn’t know.  

“Johannah is better about that, isn’t she?” Harry notes. “With the girls and Sunday dinners and everything? I know she can be cold, but she seems like a great mother.” 

“She is,” he agrees. He shuffles them to the other side of the tree, where more apples hide. “She’s definitely not as hard on the girls as she was with us boys. Niall loves her, though, they have a great connection.” 

“I think Niall is capable of loving anyone, given the chance,” Harry adds, chuckling. He picks a few more apples, before the basket begins to get too heavy and full, and Louis sets him back on his feet. “Thank you, my strong man.” He wraps his arms around Louis’ waist, leaning his chin against his chest. 

Louis grins, teeth glinting sharp and white against the sun. “This better be one hella good pie,  _gattino_.”  

“Mhm,” Harry hums coyly. “Best damn pie you’ll ever get a taste of.”  

“Is that so?” He pulls Harry closer, nosing at the smooth skin below his jaw. He goes to press his lips to his favorite spot, when something beings to repeatedly poke him in the leg. “The fu—?” 

There’s a kid—a little girl to be precise—with freakishly large brown eyes staring up at him. She has messy brown hair in a long braid and a smile full of missing teeth. Louis doesn’t know what to do, frozen against Harry as the child keeps looking at him expectantly, her grubby hand grasping tight to his jeans. He looks back at Harry, who’s glancing between them with a hand covering what is sure to be a large and delighted grin.  

“Uh, hello?” 

“Hi!” The little girl chirps back. “I would like an apple, too, please!” She waits patiently, stretching her arms out for him.  

“What? What is she doing?” Louis looks back at Harry bemusedly, the latter who only rolls his eyes and squats down to speak the girl.  

“The old man—,” Harry points a thumb in Louis’ offended direction, “—is a bit tired from carrying me. How about you take one of the nice apples from our basket. How does that sound?” 

The little girl is quick to nod gleefully, rushing over to Harry’s basket, tripping over her own two feet. She can’t be more than five, Louis assumes, from what he can remember growing up with little sisters. The chubby-cheeked child takes two apples, stuffing each in the pockets of her fluffy, pink coat.  

“I’m Harry,” he informs her. “That’s Louis. What’s your name?” 

“Jazzy,” she proclaims excitedly. Bouncing on her feet, she takes another apple from the basket and then another, trying to push them into her miniature pockets, which are already pulling at the seams.  

“Where are your parents?” Harry asks her, softly tickling under her chin. He gets this lilt in his voice, this tenderness that takes over when he’s around children, be it Louis’ littlest sisters or random children in apple orchards, it seems. Harry  _loves_ kids and Louis doesn’t, and as he watches his boyfriend with the tiny apple thief, he mentally prepares the multitude of questions that will follow including  _so you never want to have kids?_   _Never, ever?_  

At the mention of her parents, Jazzy’s buggish eyes get even bigger. “I don’t know!” Her pout begins to tremble, suddenly not as interested in the apples as she once was before.  

“Don’t cry, okay? We’ll find your parents, Jazzy,” Harry promises her, before taking her sticky hand in his.  

“We will?” Louis asks, taking the forgotten apple bucket. “Can’t we just leave her with the orchard people  and get out of here?”  

“Louis!” Harry scolds, frowning. “We can’t just abandon her. Now hurry up, Lou, I bet they’re getting desperate to find her.” 

“Are you sure?” Louis follows after them, dragging the basket along. “What kind of parent lets their kid wander around an orchard, anyway? Do you know how big this place is?”  

Harry shushes him, sending him a glare as Jazzy begins to whimper, clearly missing her parents. They walk through the fields, Jazzy pulling away from Harry to run towards the trees when she sees a particularly shiny apple, and Louis thinks he knows how she got separated from her parents in the first place. After going up and down a few more aisles, they begin to hear a faint calling for a certain  _Jazzy_.  

“Is that your mom, kid?” Louis asks, rubbing his temples. Besides freaking about random apples on the ground, she loves to  _sing_  and she loves to sing a lot. Jazzy just so happens to love Winnie the Pooh, the same shit his own sisters used to love to torture him with. Jazzy ignores him, preferring to bite into an apple. “Great,” he mutters dryly. “Helpful, aren’t you?” 

“Louis!” Harry reprimands. “She’s a kid, Lou, you can’t treat her like she’s an adult.” 

Jazzy’s moms are pushing Louis out of the way before he can answer, wrapping their little girl up in their tight hugs, frantic eyes softening as they look over her and make her squeal with tickling kisses on her cheeks. They must’ve thanked Harry and Louis a million times before Louis can finally pull them away, leading them back towards the barn to pay for their bushel.  

“She was so cute!” The younger male gushes, swinging their hands back and forth. “Don’t you agree, Lou? And, oh, her moms were so worried about her! I’m so glad it was us that found her, imagine if it was some creep? I don’t even want to think about that. Wasn’t she so cute?” 

“I mean—not really?” 

“Louis,” Harry sighs. “What is wrong with you? Why do you hate kids?” 

Louis is quick to defend himself. “I don’t hate them! I just don’t think they’re cute or funny. They’re always dirty.” He shudders for effect and continues, “I just don’t like them.” 

“So you never want to have kids?” Harry tucks his bottom lip between his teeth, staring down at the damp grass as they walk. Louis waits a few seconds. “Never, ever?” There it is.  

“Nope,” he declares assuredly. Harry knows this. Louis knows that Harry knows.  _Everyone_ in the family knows, even Johannah, much to her dismay. “I know it’s not a very popular opinion, but some people just weren’t made to raise kids.” 

“Okay, fine, I’ll give you that,” his boyfriend says. “But you just wanted to leave a little girl in the orchard by herself, Louis.” 

“I said we should take her to management. They would’ve called her parents over the speakers,” he reasons. “That’s responsible! ‘Sides, not my kid, not my problem, right?” 

Harry’s quiet for some time, the chattering around them increasing. “I guess,” he murmurs. “It’s just kinda funny, how you think. You have five siblings, your parents adopted two more. Your family is one of the most caring in the world, with your charities and foundations and all that you give back, but you…” Harry looks visibly stumped.  

“I don’t know.” Louis takes a moment to collect his thoughts. He’s tired of this conversation, patience wearing thin, but today is about Harry and making up to him what a dick Louis’ been in the past, and he can’t go snapping at him just because Louis’ scared of what a failure he’d be as a father. “I think it’d be better to leave the children to people who can properly take care of them. Someone who actually cares and loves them and tries their hardest to do the best job possible.” 

“I don’t know, Lou,” Harry starts. He wraps his arms around Louis’ waist and gives him the prettiest smile. “I think you’d do the best job ever.” 

“Ah, thanks,” Louis replies somewhat awkwardly. “I don’t know, I think I’m more of a dog person,” he admits, hoping to change the subject. “Maybe it’ll happen someday, when I’m ready.” Harry’s eyes light up, until, “I can go to a shelter and pick up a friend for life, right?” Then he’s rolling his eyes and leaving a chuckling Louis behind.  

They’re called up at the checkout and Louis lifts the basket on to the scale. Their apples are sorted into cloth bags and Louis carries them to the trunk of the car as Harry prattles about and spins around in the long grass that covers the parking area, mumbling about apple pie recipes and Jazzy, seemingly lost in the autumn ambience.  

Their next stop is  _Antonio’s_ _,_ a small, family owned deli that the Tomlinson's have been visiting since Louis was in diapers. He tells Harry just that. The bell above the door chimes as they walk in, instantly engulfed by the busy atmosphere of the restaurant. Immediately, Louis and Harry are being greeted by several Italians, Antonio himself wiping his hands on his pristine, white apron and kissing their cheeks enthusiastically. He’s chattering a mile a minute in fluent Italian, so fast that Louis has some trouble keeping up, but Harry looks completely floundered.  

“He’s saying you’re beautiful, that he’s heard so much about you,” Louis divulges, Antonio looking back and forth between the couple with a brilliant smile. He ponders for a second if he should tell him how the large Italian man gushed that they looked like they belonged together. He keeps that to himself, but he believes Harry already knows they look like complimentary pieces of a ying-yang.  

Harry blushes, his dimple deepening as he beams back. “Oh! I—thank you,  _grazie_.” 

Antonio smiles in return, nodding. He gets called over by a waitress and he flashes them a sheepish look, saying, “ _Un_ _attimo_ _per_ _favore_!” 

“Where are we sitting?” Harry asks, glancing over to dining area. The deli isn’t full, with few small tables available, and he’s eyeing the table for two over by the window with a great view to the park across the street. Normally, Louis would go wherever Harry wishes, but today he’s got another surprise for him.  

“I have a better idea.” Harry raises a brow at him in interest. “How about outside?” 

“Outside?” the curly haired boy repeats, nose wrinkling. “In the car?” 

Louis rolls his eyes, deadpanning, “Yes, Harry, in the car. I’m going to make you eat in the car, the proper romantic that I am.” 

Harry steps closer, reaching up to detangle the delicate, gold chains around Louis’ neck. He thumbs at the small crucifix before smiling, leaving it to dangle above his sternum. “You are very romantic,” Harry muses. “I never would’ve guessed.” 

“Were you surprised, in the beginning?”  

“At first, yes, with the flowers and the random little gifts. Well, actually.” Harry pauses, lips pursing in thought. “I think I’ll always be surprised by you and the things you do,” he admits. “I don’t know how anyone can get used to walking into a room and seeing those white Saint Laurent boxes on the bed with their name written on it, or being whisked away to Maine, just because they’re craving crab cakes.”  

“Maine was terrific, Maine was  _really_  terrific,” Louis recalls, licking his lips. On that spontaneous weekend trip of theirs, memories were made, moments that bring smiles to their faces now. They wandered around a small town and had their fill of mouthwatering sea food until they ached. That night Harry rode Louis on the beach with the Atlantic lapping at their feet, the full moon illuminating their bodies. They’ll go back to Maine, Louis promises himself; they’ll go back to that mint-colored cottage with a view to the chilly ocean, and they’ll make love under the jealous moon again.  

“And the flowers! The flowers,” Harry exclaims. His smile grows brighter and Louis’ goes wide in response. “The flowers are my favorite. The roses, the lilies, all of them—they’re almost too much.” His voice gets a little softer, gets a little deeper, his voice is just for Louis. “The flowers—they’re  _ours_ , okay? No matter what anyone else does to try and tarnish that, the flowers bloom for us.” 

Louis nods, he understands. The flowers belong to them. He places a hand on the back of his boy’s neck, bringing him closer, Harry smoothing a large palm across Louis’ back. Louis plants a soft kiss on Harry’s forehead, pulling back to smile at him. Not even the chiming of the bell or a burst of hearty laughter can break this moment. “I know,” he murmurs. “ _I_ _fiori_ _ci_ _appartengono_.” 

“I am very—wait, no!” Harry bites his lip, eyes squinting. He goes quiet, lips opening around words he can’t get out. “ _Sono_ _—_ _sono_ _molto_ …Grateful?” 

“ _Grato_?”  

“ _Sono_ _molto_ _grato_ ,” Harry finishes, clearly chuffed with himself. “ _Sono_ _molto_ _grato_ _di_ _aver_ _e_ _te_.  _Bronto_ _lo_ ,” he adds with a wink. 

Louis raises his eyebrows at that, surprised, scoffing in mock offense. “ _Brontolo_? Did Lottie teach you that?” 

Before Harry can answer, Antonio appears next to them with pink, round cheeks and a happy beam. Louis bets no one ever calls the proud, Italian chef  _grumpy_. Louis’ never even seen his smile slip.  

“ _Stai_ _imp_ _arando_ _l'italiano_ _, Harry?_ ” Antonio pats the proud boy on the back. “ _Ottimo_!” 

“ _Si_ ,” Harry says. “Slowly, but surely. Lottie and Fizzy make great teachers.” 

“Ah, Charlotte and Félicité!” Antonio chuckles, his belly moving joyfully with the movement. “Please, Louis, you must send my well wishes back to your family. Your mother, your brothers! It’s been too long.”  

“Of course,” Louis replies pleasantly. “I’ll pass that along.”  

“ _Stupendo_!” Antonio wraps an arm around the couple, leading them towards deli area. “I do not want to waste anymore of your time. I know today is a special day! Your basket is ready.” 

“Our bas—?” Harry begins to ask, but is immediately answered when a heavy, wicket picnic basket is plopped in front of him on the counter. The basket is opened—the mouthwatering scents of warm, fresh bread and rich meat wafting up to greet them—and filled to the brim with traditional deli foods, plus a chilled white wine Louis didn’t mind paying a little extra for. “This is for us?” 

“Did you actually think I was going to have you eat delicatessen meats in the car?” Louis asks, already imagining the stench of food lingering in his Aston Martin Vanquish and cringing. “I did say I have a whole day planned of, you know, somewhat romantic things you’ll enjoy.” 

“I know, I know,” Harry is quick to say. “When you said you had taken the day off and we’d be busy, I just thought—!” He glances around the room, pleased to see no one is paying them any attention, and lowers his voice like he’s holding government secrets. “I figured we’d go to the shooting range.” 

Louis laughs at that, at his funny and cautious boy. He sees how his green eyes are shining, gazing back at the picnic basket impatiently, how he’s bouncing on the balls of his feet. They’re both hungry, but Louis’ got a feeling Harry’s more in the mood to sit underneath the shade of a tree and just relax. These past few weeks have been tough on both of them, and a carefree picnic with a good wine, maybe a little cheesecake, and some Fitzgerald is what they need.  

“Do you  _want_  to go to the shooting range?”  

“No, no.” Harry’s watching the way Antonio orders his employees in his quick, but kind, native tongue, scolding about packing the wrong type of cheese into the basket. “Today’s not about guns and business, right, Lou? Just me and you?” 

“Right,” Louis easily agrees. He takes Harry’s hand in his as they wait. Today  _is_  about them. 

The park across the street isn’t anything special. It’s nothing compared to the green lands in the city, with only a few trees that span a space a bit bigger than the diamond of a baseball field. However, the trees themselves are sturdy and still provide a bit of shelter from the sun, despite most of the yellow and red leaves littering the ground. The elder of the two unhooks the plaid, cashmere blanket from on top of the basket, and lays it down, while Harry unpacks the basket,  _oohing_ and  _awing_  at each sandwich and pasta dish. 

Harry settles down against the trunk of their tree, eyes roaming over the delicious selection before him. “I don’t even know where to start. I could devour that cheesesteak sub, but that cobb salad—“ 

“Start with this.” Louis hands over the cheesesteak sandwich to greedy hands, taking the grilled portabella for himself. “Liam and I used to play soccer here,” he states casually in between bites. Harry looks at him in interest as he chews—he’s always interested in what Louis has to say, it seems, especially when it’s a small anecdote about his childhood, something he doesn’t bring up often. “We would race each other to see who could eat the fastest—with a good scolding from our mother, of course—and when we were bloated and full from sandwiches and fries, we’d come out here. I’d always tackle him and play a little tough, just to see if he’d puke.” 

“Louis!” Harry shakes his head at him, a slightly amused curve on his twitching frown. “You’re awful.” 

He shrugs and takes a large bite, chewing thoughtfully. “It was fun.”  

“So did he?” 

“Did he what?” 

“Did he  _vomit_?” 

Louis’ grin is sharp, the very same one that would loom over a very ghastly and green Liam as he spilled his lunch. “Of course he did. Every time.” 

“What about Zayn? Did you have evil intentions with him, as well?” Harry wonders, popping a cherry tomato into his mouth.  

“Nah,” Louis admits. “Zayn was always brighter. Besides, he’s never been one for sports. He always carried a sketchbook with him; a small, black booklet. He would sit and draw or doodle, I don’t know.” He gets on his knees and reaches for the wine, pouring the smooth liquid into the goblets and handing one over to his boyfriend. “He was always so secretive about it, but thinking about it now, it was probably filled with Liam’s face in all mediums.” 

They enjoy their meal in comfortable silence from then on, exchanging sandwiches and sharing a plate of fries. Louis picks at a salad, at which Harry only rolls his eyes, but they both lick their lips at the sight of the New York cheesecake with real strawberry puree spooned at the top. They try to be romantic and whatnot, having a go at feeding each other, until Louis drips the fruit syrup down the front of Harry’s sweater and Harry clumsily tips the bottle of wine sitting in between them on to Louis’ lap. They give up after that, sticky and unamused, and feed themselves.  

Felling satisfied and well-fed, his eyes start to feel a little heavy. He squirms around on the Hermès cashmere until he’s where he feels the most comfortable: his head nestled across Harry’s thighs, Harry’s fingers threading his hair. He watches silently as Harry reaches into the picnic basket without jostling him, retrieving the book Louis had sent over earlier along with the basket and the wine.  

 _The Beautiful and Damned_  is old and loved—as most of Harry’s books seem to be, Louis’ noticed—with a weak spine and thin, long sticky notes on almost every page, because Harry finds it cruel to mark on books and Fitzgerald is notoriously quote-worthy. Louis watches through drowsy eyes as his boy opens the book in the middle and they both stare as a piece of white paper falls free from the pages and flutters through the air until it lands on Louis’ chest.  

He doesn’t know what he was expecting—a bookmark made from an index card, perhaps, or simply just a folded up piece of paper—but he’s surprised when his fingers find thick, almost cardboard material and it takes him a second to realize that it’s the card from the very first floral arrangement he ever sent Harry. He remembers writing the message like it was yesterday.  

‘ _Looking forward to tonight. I bet you’ll look beautiful like always._ ’ 

“It was for our first date,” Harry murmurs, reading his mind. The ambience is calm and honest. It fits. They’re under the canopy of a large tree whose leaves fall with every breeze, both of them comfortable with the taste of strawberries behind their teeth.  

“The date you cancelled.” He watches as Harry looks away with a sheepish nod. “You kept this? Why?” 

“I kept them all,” Harry confesses. “It was the first gift from you. It felt… important.” 

Louis shakes his head in disagreement. “The flowers were the gift.” 

“The flowers were special, the meaning was beautiful, too.  _New beginnings_ , remember?” Harry shrugs, suddenly bashful. He turns the paper around in fingers, the edges y ellowing and wrinkled, the ink slightly faded. “It’s silly, but it was the first thing you ever gave me and it had your hand writing and. I don’t know. It’s silly, isn’t it?” 

It is. It is rather silly, considering he’s given Harry plenty more roses after that with more cards and more messages with his handwriting, but in some way he understands it. It  _was_ the very beginning of  _them_. He remembers feeling gutted reading Harry’s text—he had been looking forward to their first date, despite how much Louis denied it to himself. It’s silly, but it’s sweet, and if that doesn’t scream Harry, what will? 

“Can I read to you?” Harry asks, clearly uncomfortable with Louis’ silence. At Louis’ nod, he reopens the book and slides the note back into the heart of it, clearing his throat before continuing. “‘Dot,’ he whispered uncomfortably, ‘you’ll forget. Things are always sweeter when they’re lost. I know—because once I wanted something and got it. It was the only thing I ever wanted badly, Dot. And when I got it, it turned to dust in my hands.’” 

“I love this part,” Louis mumbles. Harry smiles down at him, dimple peeking through. He wants to kiss him, kiss him, kiss him. “Continue, please,” he says instead.  

Harry does just that, round eyes focused on the small print. “‘…and that taught me you can’t have  _anything_ ; you can’t have anything at  _all_. Because desire just cheats you. It’s like a sunbeam skipping here and there about a room. It stops and gilds some inconsequential object, and we poor fools try to grasp it—but when we do, the sunbeam moves on to something else, and you’ve got the inconsequential part, but the glitter that made you want it is gone…’” 

Louis tries to listen, he does. He wants to lose himself into the fucked up relationship between Anthony and Gloria, but he can’t find his way out of Harry’s lips. He glares at them, at their smooth texture, at their red coloring, at the way they shape and form every word. At some point Harry’s lips stop moving all together and his eyes fleeting back and forth between the pages is the only movement, and so Louis watches.  

“Are you just gonna stare at me?” Harry sighs, turning the page. He smooths down one of the rouge sticky notes and doesn’t bother lifting his gaze from the book. “You stopped paying attention a while back.” 

“Mhm,” Louis hums. “Got distracted. Found something more interesting to study.” 

Harry cracks a smile at that, rolling his eyes goodheartedly. He goes back to reading out loud, much to Louis’ pleasure. Annoyingly, not too long after, his eyes start to close on their own behalf. He doesn’t even try to fight it, seemly impossible with Harry’s voice like a lullaby, rocking him to sleep. For some time, he’s stuck in between two realms, sleeping soundly, Harry’s telling voice playing in his dreams like a radio. He feels it when Harry shifts, when he goes to rest in front of him, moving Louis’ arm so it’s wrapped around his middle.  

He doesn’t know how long they nap for, but when Louis wakes up, he feels refreshed and ready to continue onwards with their day. Harry’s still asleep, wheezing lightly—something that he shouldn’t find so endearing, so why the fuck does he?—the book closed in front of him. Louis sits ups and stretches his arms above his head. He spies Bates at the end of the park, sitting on a bench, looking like a normal fellow out enjoying the nice weather. There are a few more bodyguards around the perimeter of the small park, all in jeans and light jackets, blending in nicely.  

“Baby,” Louis whispers, leaning down to press butterfly kisses on Harry’s shoulder, his neck. “C’mon,  _gattino_ , time to wake up.” 

Harry grumbles and blinks, squinting against the sunlight. “Rude, I was having a good dream.” 

“Too bad, baby, we’ve still got a lot of day left.” He pats Harry’s butt and stands, helping the boy up. They pack everything back into the picnic basket, Harry promising to take their untouched pasta dishes and sandwiches down to Liam and Zayn’s when they get home. Soon, they’re making their way out of the little town and heading back into the city and Harry’s already growing impatient. 

“You have to tell me!” 

“It’s a  _surprise_ , Harry.” 

“I hate  _surprises_ , Louis,” he says. His pout is loud and defiant. He’s such a brat, honestly. “This isn’t fair.” 

Louis snorts, glancing over at him in disbelief _,_  sparing them both on a speech about how life isn’t fair, because truth be told, he’d just sound like Liam. He’d rather shoot himself in the foot. “What the hell are you talking about? You love surprises.” 

“I don’t, actually,” Harry denies it. He shrugs and nonchalantly begins to pick at his nail polish. “It doesn’t matter anyway, Lou.” 

“Oh?” Louis’ interest is piqued now and he takes his eyes off the road to look besides him, watching his boy’s throat bob, surely feeling Louis’ heated gaze. “It doesn’t? And why’s that, angel?” 

It takes Harry a few moments to answer, but when he finally does, his voice is high and filled with certain kind of confidence that doesn’t show very often. Like he has something to prove, a point to make. “I can get you to tell me anything,” he states. There’s a hint of something in his tone, smidgen of bratiness Louis recognizes from their time spent in the bedroom. “If I really wanted to, I know I could  _make_ you tell me.”  

“Is that so?” Louis has to bite down on his lip to keep his laughter at bay. “You think you can  _make_   _me_  tell you anything,” he echoes. He knows Harry is itching to have his eyes on him, always thrives under Louis’ stare, so he glares harder at the road, refusing to give in to Harry.  

“In a heartbeat.”  

“Go on, then,” he challenges. “Since you think you know better than me, go ahead. Pull it out of me.”  

It’s quiet again, Harry mulling beside him to the point that Louis thinks he’s called his bluff. The sound of the Aston Martin purring is the only noise between them, as they get on the highway back into the city. The highway is rather empty, only Toyota in front of them and Bate’s SUV further behind them. Louis presses down on the accelerator, and that’s when Harry decides to unbuckle his seat belt and lean across the console.  

“What the fuck are you doing?” Louis demands, taking his eyes off the road to glance at a smug Harry, who is reaching into his lap, lifting his shirt off to unbutton his jeans. Louis’ hitting 90, but it doesn’t seem like Harry knows—or cares—as he pulls his cock out from the slit in his boxers, the cool metal of his rings causing Louis to swerve as they surprise his skin.  

They're nearing the city when Harry pops back up, wiping the corner of his coy mouth with a thumb, a light blush across his cheeks. He settles back into his seat and buckles himself back in and Louis can't think straight, beads of sweat across his temple. His grip on the steering wheel hasn't loosened, his knuckles white as he stares at the road ahead. His brain is mush.  

"So." 

"Uh," is his intelligent response. He glances at his boy, whose got a huge, proud, red smile across his face. God, Louis loves him. "Uh," he repeats. 

"Where are we going?" Harry asks as he turns coy. He bats his lashes and pushes out his lower lip, and Louis has to remind himself he's still driving, his hands glued to the wheel despite wanting to reach out and caress that swollen mouth.  

Louis has to think. He stops at a red light and frowns. Harry has gone and fucked him up--it should be illegal for someone to have a tongue so talented. His mind blanks and he turns to his  _gattino_. Brows furrowed, he shakes his head. "I can't remember my own name." 

Harry's loud, responding laughter warms Louis from his head to his toes. That's what Louis wanted to gain from today--that laughter that never fails to set his heart fluttering. He never thought he'd have  _that_. He gets to have his cake and eat it too, and from the stunt Harry pulled on the highway, Louis will really be eating it tonight.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again this is a two part chap yes i will actually post it lol also let me know if you see any mistakes bc i've read over this a million times and something always slips through
> 
> until next time


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